City of Hellfire
by Hawthorn Ghost
Summary: As Sebastian Morgenstern grows stronger and Jace continues to grow weaker, Clary has no choice but to join her brother to save Jace's life. However, darkness is on the horizon for the Shadowhunters, and a choice Alec Lightwood makes could destroy not only the person he loves most, but the entire world.
1. Prologue

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

So I just finished reading _City of Lost Souls_. And since _City of Heavenly Fire_ doesn't come out for another, what, two years, I've decided to write an alternate fic for it while we wait. This will be updated on the last Friday of every month (Sorry if that seems long, but I have a full-time job and I'm also working on my own novel, so fanfiction comes second; plus, if it's updated consistently at this rate, we'll finish pretty much just in time for the release of the real book, which is pretty nifty), but I already have the first ten or so chapters planned out, and the epilogue is already written.

This is going to focus more on Malec, as I feel that Clace and Sizzy have been getting _way_ too much exposure in these books, and Jordan and Maia will hardly be featured at all (Who actually likes those two?). And I honestly feel that Malec is the most realistic relationship portrayed in the series; I mean, they actually have legitimate intimacy and trust issues, unlike Jace and Clary, who just want to bone each other every other five pages. So if you don't like Malec...too bad. Get over it and/or don't even begin reading this fic, because their relationship is a huge catalyst for the actual plot.

But seriously, who doesn't like Malec? :)

I can't remember a thing that happened in _CoFA_ (Except for the hella awesome ending), and I'm already starting to forget what happened in _CoLS_, so bear with me, and please feel more than free to address any mistakes you see.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sebastian Morgenstern or any of the MI characters or the series itself. All of it belongs to Cassandra Clare.

**Warnings:** Mild violence

* * *

Sebastian glared down at the angel, his eyes full of disdain. What a pitiful sight it looked, he thought, grounded and curled in on itself, golden blood pooling beneath it in reflective puddles.

"I hope I haven't caused you any more discomfort than was necessary," the boy said, his voice sharp and echoing in the dingy cellar.

The angel opened its eyes, almond-shaped and absent of pupils. Its cheekbones rested high upon its face, framed by dirty, blonde curls. Scars and purple bruises marred its otherwise flawless skin.

"Why have you turned your back upon heaven, my child?"

Sebastian's lips curled downward in a sneer. "Heaven never held me in any favor," he snapped, anger and pain distorting his handsome features. "How could it? Cursed with the blood of a demon woman. Your precious creator turned his eyes from me the very moment of my birth, holding me responsible for the actions of one Valentine Morgenstern."

"It matters not what blood courses through your veins, boy," the angel whispered, its voice dripping with such compassion that it made Sebastian feel physically ill.

"Then why do Shadowhunters hold such favor with heaven? Face it, angel," the boy spat, his voice laced with poison, "blood is _everything_."

Sebastian pulled a wicked, curved blade from his belt, and sliced it into the flesh of his palm. Thick, blackish blood oozed between his fingers as he clenched them into a fist, droplets of blood falling onto the cement floor, sizzling where they landed. "If blood is meaningless," he hissed, "why don't you take my hand and _prove_ it?"

The angel remained immobile, its eyes half-lidded and downcast in its sorrow. Sebastian smiled, his lips set into a thin, cruel line. "It's just as I said, angel," he whispered, his voice a bitter hiss, full of hatred. "We of the wrong blood hold no favor with heaven."

The angel gazed upward at the young boy with mournful eyes. "You have such ambition, child," it whispered in a sad, toneless voice. "But that ambition will be your undoing, just as it was with your father."

Sebastian hissed, sucking in air through his teeth. "I am nothing like him. Nothing like him at all."

"Above all else, child, you are your father's son."

Eyes narrowed in fury, Sebastian pulled his left hand back and struck the angel across the face, a sharp crack reverberating from off the stone walls. Breathing hard, he stared down at the angel, at its blood-encrusted shoulder blades, bits of bone and feather protruding from where its wings had been severed from pale flesh.

Sebastian spat at the angel, face contorted in rage. "After I've brought hell to heaven, I'll set you on fire and watch you writhe."

He turned on his heels, leaving the shattered creature to sulk in its ruin.

He slammed the cellar door behind him, sliding down the metal, pulling at his hair as he crouched on the off-white tiled floor.

"I am not like him," he whispered, his head buried in his hands, fingers twisted in silvery hair. "I am not..."

_You are just like him. You and he are the same._

He knew that voice, knew that snide, holier-than-thou tone.

He knew it better than he knew the sound of his own voice.

_Clarissa._

He dropped his hands to his knees, scowling upwards, as if daring heaven itself to smite him where he crouched.

"Call upon your unhearing angels all you like, _darling sister_," he spat, baring his teeth. "But know that hell is where you belong."

And he would burn down the world and deliver it to her doorstep.


	2. Iridescent

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

Ok, so this is the first chapter of City of Hellfire. I decided to upload this as well today because the prologue was so short, and it didn't really seem fair to make you all wait an entire month when the prologue was only like 800 words. This was pretty fun to write, and like I stated in the author's note for the prologue, feel free to point out any mistakes you happen to spot, as I'm sure there's probably a ton; after all, proofreading can't find everything, can it?

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Mortal Instruments series or any of its characters, or the very beginning of this chapter, as it's just a recap from the epilogue of _CoLS_.

**Warnings:** Mild language; violence; if you need to be warned not to read if you don't agree with Malec, shame on you.

* * *

**PART ONE:**

**BOUGHT WITH BLOOD**

_And War, which for a moment was no more,  
Did glut himself again; a meal was bought  
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart  
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;  
All earth was but one thought and that was death,  
Immediate and inglorious_

_— Darkness; _Lord Byron

* * *

_"You're looking for Camille," she said in a singsong voice. "But she isn't here anymore. Oh, no. She's gone."_

_"She's gone?" Alec demanded. "What do you mean she's gone?"_

_Maureen giggled. "You know how vampire law works, don't you? Whoever kills the head of a vampire clan becomes its leader. And Camille was the head of the New York clan. Oh, yes, she was."_

_"So—someone killed her?"_

_Maureen burst into a happy peal of laughter. "Not just someone, silly," she said. "It was me."_

Alec stared open-mouthed at the frail girl. She didn't _appear_ to be particularly threatening, wearing a pink unicorn shirt and worn jeans, but the frayed ends of her pale scarf were dripping with the same ruby-tinted blood that painted her lips, and the Shadowhunter knew that even a child vampire was still a vampire. Her pale lips were split into a wide grin, her teeth stained with what were no doubt the remains of the vampire Camille.

"_You_..._you_ killed _Camille_?" he questioned, his blue eyes widened in bewilderment.

As if in reply, Maureen's grin split even wider, and she brought her wrist to her lips, her dark eyes twinkling with mirth. Camille's blood, a vivid, shining red, ran all the way down Maureen's arm, stopping at her elbow, as if she wore a grotesque glove of blood.

Maureen slowly slid her tongue out from between two black-stained lips, flicking at a ruby bead of blood. "She hardly even put up a fight," she remarked, grinning crookedly. "No wonder even _Raphael_ couldn't be bothered with her." She spat his name like a curse.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Alec fought back a wave of rolling nausea in the pit of his stomach, and glowered across at the girl. What forced a person to become this way, he thought? It seemed strange, surreal even, that the tiny girl sitting no less than thirty feet away from him could be so cold-blooded, so inhuman. She could be no older than thirteen, really, yet her eyes blazed with the fire of a cold-hearted demon.

The same frosted eyes that Camille had once gazed across at him with.

Taking a step backward, Alec forced the witchlight to brighten, slowly lowering the seraph blade. "Maureen...why did you do this?"

Maureen let loose a chuckle, bell-like and airy. "Silly Nephilim; Camille was weak, and I was stronger. That's all there is to it."

"Where is she now?" he growled, gripping the sereph blade tighter. Despite all the damage Camille had caused him, she had still been his only link to Magnus' past. With the vampiress gone, his last tie to the warlock had been completely severed.

He had wanted her dead, certainly. But now that he knew her life had been ended, he couldn't help but feel alone.

Well, more alone than before.

The fledgling vampire jumped down to her feet, stepping closer to the Shadowhunter. "Gone," she whispered, her childlike tone strangely dark. Her eyes narrowed to luminescent slits in the shadowed lighting. "Just like you and the rest of your kind will soon be."

Alec jumped back just in time as Maureen leapt at him, claw-like fingers outstretched for his throat.

"Amriel!" he cried out, spinning to the side while pulling the seraph blade down in a semi-circle, barely missing the top of the vampire's head.

Maureen jumped back a few good feet, a heated snarl warping her youthful features. "Why bother defending her at all, Shadowhunter? Your kind hates us all."

"Tell me why you did this, vampire," Alec demanded, Amriel burning a fierce blue.

The girl crouched low to the ground, fingernails digging into the dirtied cement floor. "You don't deserve to have this world, Nephilim," she spat, her tone eerily hateful for one so childish in appearance. "No," she growled, shoulders hunched, "you don't deserve it at all."

The girl shot off like a dart, throwing herself at the boy, who staggered backwards with her at his throat. She hissed, baring needle-like fangs, before sinking her teeth down into his skin, blood pooling around her mouth.

Alec grunted, gripping Maureen by the shoulder and hauling her off of him. She flew into a pillar, crushing it inward before falling to the ground and rolling to a stop.

Alec cried out in agony, blood oozing between his fingers as he tried to stem the blood-flow from his neck. He reached down to pull a stele from inside of his boot, when the vampire slammed into his back, sending the stele skidding across the cement.

Alec pushed himself off of his stomach and rolled to his back, just in time to shoot his knee into Maureen's lower abdomen as she attempted to grabble for his neck-wound once more. She grunted and put a hand to her stomach, face seething.

"Damn Shadowhunters," she growled, blood running down her chin. "You think the world owes you something, but even your angels won't answer your prayers." She shot a glare down at Alec, claws extended, fangs ready for the kill. "But soon you won't have any angels left to pray to at all."

She threw herself off the ground, propelling herself forward through the air, hissing as she collided with the Shadowhunter. Alec grabbed a fistful of the girl's dark hair, fingers entangled in the blood-matted mess, and raised Amriel, glaring up at the vampire as he brought the seraph blade singing across her neck, slicing through sinewy tissue and bone.

Maureen's head ripped off her shoulders, blood and ichor spraying Alec across the face and chest. Her head fell to the ground with a weak thump, rolling a little ways before hitting the Shadowhunter's boot and coming to a halt.

Face contorted into a disgusted grimace, Alec kicked the head out of the way, watching as the young girl's brunette locks tangled around the severed appendage. He glanced down at the vampire's slain corpse, and narrowed his eyes. Something gleaming caught his eye, and as he bent down to take a closer look at the body, his lips fell apart into a perfect circle, eyes wide with shock.

Maureen's pink scarf had slipped down her shoulders just the tiniest amount. Standing out from the dark, red-black blood oozing from the decapitation Alec had just delivered, was a burning symbol engraved into the girl's milky flesh.

There, just below her collarbone, was the mark of Lilith, burning black against Maureen's alabaster skin.

The same demon scar that had been engraved over Jace's chest.

He ran a finger over the mark—smooth, and cold to the touch—when a searing heat ran from the tip of his finger all throughout his body, sending him flying backwards. He cried out as he was thrown into the wall, moaning as he slid down and rolled.

"By the angel," he grunted, feeling stiff all over. He opened his eyes, and just a little ways away, lay his stele.

Fingers outstretched, he reached for the stele—

Only to have them miss by several inches.

He stretched his arm out even further, desperately trying to reach the stele, when a bolt of fiery pain shot through his leg. He cried out, gripping his leg as hot agony burned throughout the limb. A flash of fire ran along his torso, and a harsh, gravelly voice rang throughout his ears.

_Nephilim_, it cooed, _my son will burn your people and set fire to the ashes_.

Grimacing in pain, Alec dug into his pants pocket, fiddling around until his fingers had curled around his cell phone. He took it out, noticing the thick cracks running along the screen where he had no doubt landed on it during the fight; the screensaver, an old picture of Magnus holding him in front of the Eiffel Tower, was shattered into tiny fragments.

He flipped the phone open, and punched in the only number he had ever memorized by heart, waiting anxiously as the dial tone turned into an answering machine. A feeling of cold dread spread throughout his chest.

"Magnus," he spoke, his voice a raspy cry, "please...Maureen...can't reach...my stele...hurt...help me..."

His fingers twitched one last time, before his grip on the phone loosened and it slid to the floor. He drew in a shuddery breath of air, desperately willing the warlock to come for him, before finally being submerged into waiting darkness.

* * *

Magnus knew he should have ignored the call.

But he had long since learned that Alec never called just to talk, or to sort things out. Even if the boy was heartbroken or even just shaken up, Magnus knew he still wouldn't have called.

He was calling as a Shadowhunter, which meant something was amiss.

The only reason he hadn't just phoned Jace was because he knew Magnus was closer by.

"Damn cellular device," he muttered, hastily flipping the rhinestone-studded phone open. It had been set to silent, stupidly so. Even so, the phone showed that the boy had only called fifteen minutes ago. He put his ear to the receiver, examining his nails as he did so.

Alec's voice was tinny on the other end, garbled and frantic.

_Magnus...please...Maureen...can't reach...my stele...hurt...help me..._

He dropped the phone, his eyes wide with horror.

He turned and ran back the way he had followed Alec.

He didn't know how long it took him to run back to the subway station, rushing against the wind, scarf flying behind him as he continued to propel himself forward, boots pounding at the wet pavement.

Time seemed to slow, crawling past him at a torturous pace. What if he was too late? What if the vampire girl had already done her damage? What if...what if Alec was gone—

_No_, he thought, the wind stinging his cat eyes with burning tears. _Don't think like that. Don't you think that thought for even a second_.

Alec was still alive. His heart was still beating. If it wasn't, the warlock would have been able to sense it.

He would have known.

It seemed that the next second he was in the station, staring wide-eyed, spinning around and around, calling out Alec's name, his voice rising several octaves when no one answered.

And then, a cough, wet and ragged.

"Mmmmm...Magnus..."

_Alec_.

Magnus whipped his head to the side, oddly colored eyes fixated on the darkness, desperately trying to focus in on the Shadowhunter.

"Magnus...I'm here..."

Magnus' ears pounded, the sound of his own breathing sounding harsh and magnified to him in the echoing station. He narrowed his eyes when a shadow moved in the distance, moaning. His heart skipped a beat. Alec was lying motionless on the cement, a dark pool of blood underneath him.

"Alec!" he cried, barely breathing as he raced toward the wounded Shadowhunter. He ran a hand along the boy's jawline, eyes lined with worry. "Alec...Alec," he whispered, "Alec please, please wake up..."

The dark-haired boy groaned, head moving to the side. His cheek brushed against Magnus' hand, and he opened his eyes, looking up at him through a hazy blue gaze.

"Magnus," the boy croaked, a cracked smile warping his lips as he looked up at the warlock. "You came..."

Magnus nodded his head, though remained silent. Alec's eyebrows slanted downward, his eyes full of worry. "Do...do you hate me?" he asked rather unexpectedly, lips parted wide.

"Why would you think that?" the warlock asked, head cocked to the side.

"Because you left me," he moaned, curling in on himself.

Magnus sighed. "Stop being so melodramatic, would you?" But when Alec seemed to curl even tighter, he said, in a softer tone, "I told you that I love you, Alec, and I still do, but I just can't trust you." His gold-green eyes narrowed to slits as he glared down at the Shadowhunter. "You tried to take my life into your own hands. That is unforgivable, Alexander."

Alec shot a heated scowl up at Magnus, and snapped, "You never trusted me with any–" However, before the boy could finish that statement, a spasm rippled throughout his body, forcing a cry from his bloodied and cracked lips. Magnus bit his lip, and stared down at the dark-haired young man, an uneasy feeling building in the pit of his stomach as he took in the pallor of Alec's skin, sickly pale with a greenish tint to it.

He clenched his right first, green sparks emitting from his fingertips once he unclenched his hand. He pulled Alec's shirt open, buttons popping, and for a moment, he was reminded of a time not so long ago when the wounded boy actually wanted his companionship, actually trusted him.

But things were different now. Camille's ambition and Alec's own distrust and paranoia had made sure of that.

He pressed his fingertips onto Alec's chest, right over where his heart was. He could feel the boy's faint pulse, soft and steady. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head over the Shadowhunter's heart, wanted nothing more than to steal the two of them away from this war, away from all of the violence in their lives.

But things were never really that simple, he knew that well enough.

The war would never end, and Alec would never truly trust him.

And without trust, there could never be any real love between them.

Without a moment's hesitation, his nails elongated, dagger-like and covered in sparkles, and he pressed them against Alec's chest.

His nails sliced into the Shadowhunter's chest, blood pooling out of the five wounds. He muttered a quiet, guttural incantation, and pulled his nails out of Alec's flesh.

A shower of multi-colored sparks shot upward from Alec's heaving chest, scattering oddly colored fragments of light all around the cold room.

Alec drew in a ragged gasp, blood spurting from his mouth, over his exposed chest and Magnus' right hand. His lips quivered, and he whispered Magnus' name, his weakened voice soft and breaking.

The warlock bent low, and kissed the boy softly on the lips, tasting the salt of blood and sweat.

Alec looked up at him through veiled eyes, breathing hard. "What...what was that for?" he whispered, his breath coming in ragged pulls.

Magnus curled a lock of Alec's dark hair around his index finger, smiling down at the Shadowhunter. "To make you forget."

Alec's brows slanted downward, his eyes watering. "Magnus, no–"

But it was too late. Already the boy's eyes were closing, an enchanted sleep taking him prisoner.

Soon he would awaken, and Magnus would have never been there at all.

It was better that way, he thought, his own eyes stinging.

He glanced down, and saw the boy's cell phone, lying no less than an inch away from his hand. Magnus picked the phone up, but drew in a sharp breath of air when his eyes took in the fragmented screensaver.

They had been so happy then, he thought, frowning. Happy away from the world of magic and Shadowhunters.

But Alec would never be able to walk away from the life of a Shadowhunter, no sooner than Magnus would have been able to walk away from his existence of magic and demons.

He scrolled through the contacts, until he had found Jace's number.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked down at the phone, considering how Alec might talk to his Parabatai in a text message.

He sighed, deftly jabbing at the keys. Rolling his eyes, he figured that that was probably close enough. He set the phone down on the ground, just next to Alec's hand, and rose to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Alexander. But this is for your own good."

And with that the warlock turned and went the way he had come.

Though he knew it was for the best, he couldn't help but realize how much he was going to miss those beautiful, blue eyes...

No.

Alec would be his ruin if he did not push the boy from his thoughts as soon as possible.

Valentine had been right all along, he thought, reflecting on something Jace had said long ago.

Love made one weak.

* * *

"I don't think I like this 'heavenly fire' schtick anymore."

Clary grinned at Jace, and asked, "But I thought you liked having superpowers?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Not when it means I can't even touch you."

"A sacrifice Team Good just has to make," she teased, her hand mere inches from his.

Her boyfriend shot a glare down at his lap, scowling. "Screw Team Good."

Joking aside, Clary could see why it bothered him so much. Hell, it bothered her too. She had fought so hard to free him of Lilith and Sebastian's hold, that being told she could have him, but not _touch_ him, was more torture than she could bear.

She had almost lost him twice now, and now they weren't even supposed to hold hands, let alone kiss.

And she missed those flame-tossed kisses of his, pure gold and fiery passion.

"Ha," Jace teased, "got you thinking about it too, didn't I?"

Clary grimaced. "I really hate you, Jace, you know that?"

Jace laid a hand over his heart, mockingly. "Women do not hate me, Clary," he said, his tone feigning indignation.

"Right, and Lilith is really a go-go dancer in her free time."

Jace shot her an inquisitive glance. "I'm sure she has her hobbies?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Yeah, and they include genocide and demon blood."

"Go-go dancing, genocide," Jace said, weighing the two in his hands. "Not too far off."

Clary laughed, her eyes sparkling as she looked across at him. "You're ridiculous."

"So how go the wedding plans?" he asked suddenly, his expression oddly more strained than it previously had been.

"They're still on," she replied, shrugging. "I wish they'd wait until we stop Sebastian, though. It seems too dangerous to have a wedding right now."

Jace's brows slanted downward, shadowing his gold eyes. "Clary," he spoke softly, "There might not be another chance."

She knew he was only being honest, but she still thought it was silly to worry about a wedding of all things under the given circumstances. They had tried to keep news about the ceremony as hushed as possible, but Clary knew it was foolish to believe that Sebastian didn't already know about it.

She wished she could protect her mother and Luke from Sebastian's hatred, but no one was safe from her brother. Luke had already almost been killed because of him, and she knew he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to Jocelyn; there was no shared love between mother and son, Clary knew that much.

"Still," she whispered, "it seems so thoughtless."

Jace reached out for her, and hesitated. He bit down on his lower lip. "Damn it," he spat, seething. "How the hell am I supposed to comfort you if I can't even touch you?"

Clary closed her eyes, breathing hard. This wasn't fair. After all they had been through together, it was as if nothing had even changed. They still couldn't touch one another, couldn't really be together until this heavenly fire got under check.

She felt like he was still far off, untouchable.

_It's like he's still under Lilith's control_, she thought, and hated herself for thinking it.

"We'll learn how to get passed it, Jace," she said, her voice more encouraging than she felt. "And then it won't be able to come between us anymore."

Jace's grimace melted into a slight frown. "I want to be with you _now_, Clary."

She inhaled deeply. Screw the Silent Brothers' warnings. "So be with me, Jace."

He seemed to swallow the lump forming in the back of his throat, moving forward, as if ready to kiss her. Clary's fingers twitched for his, her hand sliding forward along the table–

And then Jace's cell phone buzzed, causing both Shadowhunters to jump. Clary yanked her hand away from his faster than a flash of lightning. Jace sent an apologetic glance her way, before looking down at his phone, and then grimaced. "What is it?" Clary asked, worry lining her voice.

"It's Alec," he answered, his voice strained. "He's hurt."

* * *

Alec's world came into blurry focus as he opened his eyes, squinting at the sun's light coming in through the cracks of the blinds.

He was in the Institute infirmary.

"Glad to see you up and running," a familiar, deep voice rang in his ears.

Alec groaned, his back cushioned by a mountain of white pillows. "Leave it to Izzy to make sure that her brother is given nothing less than the best hospitality a Shadowhunter Institute could manage," Jace said, rolling his eyes.

"_This_ is the best we have to offer?" Alec asked, his dark brows raised in mock bewilderment. "Where's the bed in breakfast?"

Jace shot a warning glance at Alec. "Do you _really_ want Izzy feeding you?"

Alec's face paled. "No, no...that's quite all right." His chest was throbbing wildly, though he couldn't remember Maureen managing to badly wound him there at all during the course of their battle.

"How did I get here?" he asked, eyeing his Parabatai through tired eyes.

Jace sat to the side of the bed, nervously fiddling with the hemline of his sweater. "Clary and I brought you back here." His golden eyebrows raised in confusion. "Don't you remember the text you sent?"

"Text? What text? What are you–" Alec's voice dyed down. The only text he had sent had been to Magnus.

_Who never came_, he thought, a bitter taste in his mouth.

Jace slid his hand into his pocket, retrieving his phone. He flipped it open, and handed it to his Parabatai.

_Jace. I m hurt. City Hall Subway Station._

Alec's eyes narrowed. "I never sent this, Jace. I don't know who did."

Jace sighed; he looked so tired, Alec thought. It was no wonder, really. After everything that had happened in the past few months, it was a miracle he was even still alive, let alone up and running. "Clary identified the body as the vampire Simon bit a while back."

"Maureen," Alec said, his voice a weak monotone. Inhaling deeply, Alec said, "The mark was on Maureen's chest, Jace. The mark of Lilith."

Jace nodded, biting his lip. "We saw. Sebastian already has the Fair Folk on his side. Now he has the vampires too?"

"Shouldn't Simon know about this, then?" Alec snapped, irritation suddenly burrowing in the pit of his stomach. "What good is he to us if he can't even engage himself in vampire politics?"

"_Alec_," Jace whispered his tone surprisingly soft, gold-flecked eyes incredulous. "Simon is our friend...our ally. He's almost more Shadowhunter than vampire anyway."

"Bull," Alec spat, scowling across at the blonde boy. "Because of his ineptitude, we never know _what's_ going on with Raphael _or_ Camille."

Eyes widened, Jace asked, "_Camille_? What's this got to do with _her_?"

Alec felt his blood go cold, and inwardly scolded himself. This wasn't about Camille, he reminded himself, or especially Simon, who had always been a loyal friend to the Institute. It was about his own selfishness, and Magnus.

"You're right, Jace," he muttered, rubbing the bridge between his nose. "I'm just taking out my frustration toward Maureen on all vampires, even though Simon's only ever helped us."

Jace narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "There's more," he added, his voice sounding uncertain.

How unlike Jace to sound so...concerned, Alec thought, taken back. "More _what_?" Alec asked, and the younger boy motioned for him to raise his shirt.

The dark-haired boy sat up all the way, grimacing. With tentative fingers Alec grasped at the ripped fabric of his shirt, pulling it upwards, over the hardened planes of his stomach and over his head, mussing his feathery hair.

He looked down at his chest, and sucked in a harsh breath of air.

Five scars, shining a brilliant array of colors, circled where his heart was. He twisted his torso, and a ray of light from the window caught the marks, showering the room in iridescent light.

"Any idea what that is?" Jace asked, pointing at the scars.

Jace's Parabatai shook his head, frowning. "I've no idea," he whispered.

"Great, more confusion. Just what we needed," Jace said, rising to his feet, sighing. "Anyway, I've got to be going. I'm supposed to be getting suited up for the wedding, and all."

Alec grinned up at the tan Shadowhunter. "Shouldn't you have taken care of that already?"

"Oh, I'm sorry that Sebastian didn't exactly let me off his leash long enough to take my measurements for a bitchin' tux."

Alec let out a harsh bark of laughter, and Jace threw his peacoat at him. "In case it gets cold tonight," he said, shrugging. "You know how your mom likes to keep it like a goddamn iceberg here."

"Thanks," Alec grinned, fingering the soft material of the blue coat.

"You know, Alec," Jace said, his tone suddenly very dry. "Those scars are pretty fabulous," he continued, sending a knowing look Alec's direction.

Alec slowly inhaled, his breath catching in his throat.

Jace smiled across at his Parabatai, before exiting the small room, closing the door behind him.

The dark-haired boy grimaced, slowly sliding his arms into the sleeves of the peacoat, pulling the coat tight around his body.

He breathed in deeply, eyes watering as he recalled the last moments he had shared with the warlock, the hurt look in his strange eyes, and gasped—

There. Underneath the stench of vampire decay and the tarnished smell of blood clinging to the fabric of the peacoat, was another scent, faint, yet overwhelmingly powerful to Alec's senses.

The scent of sandalwood, fresh and blissfully lingering, embedded into the soft blue fabric.

Closing his eyes in ecstasy, the Shadowhunter slowly sunk back into the pillows, the plush material molding to the contour of his aching back.

Alec opened his eyes, smiling softly out the window as he breathed in the heavenly scent of sandalwood.

"Magnus", he whispered, and the name tasted like fire on his tongue.


	3. Into the Garden

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE:_**

As fun as this chapter was to write (And seriously, it literally took me the last three weeks to write it), I also hate it because this fic is definitely not a legitimate reflection of my actual writing. This fic is like an awkward hybrid of mine and Clare's writing, which is made even more awkward by the fact that the two of us have ridiculously different writing styles. For instance, I have a very dark, minimalist style, and Clare...well, Clare sure likes her similes and metaphors. A lot. And I wouldn't exactly call the Mortal Instruments 'dark' per-say.

(In fact, if you want to see a more accurate representation of my writing, go to my profile and read _Nemesis_; however, it's also for the Danny Phantom fandom, so you may not be interested)

But seriously, awkward transition from my own writing style to her writing style, this fic just keeps getting more and more fun to write. Hopefully I'm keeping everyone in character (But if I'm not, feel free to let me know). Also, constructive criticism is the best, so be sure to leave it if you have any. And all the reviews on the last chapter were really encouraging, so thank you!

Funny story, I recently went through a breakup of my own, so writing Malec has become incredibly easy for me.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own the Mortal Instruments series. That belongs to Cassandra Clare.

**Warnings:** Mild language/Somewhat violent towards the very end.

* * *

_You are cordially invited to celebrate the union of_

_Luke Garroway_

_and_

_Jocelyn Fray_

_On this Tuesday_

_Of December 19th..._

Magnus didn't read beyond the date. There was hardly a need to, he thought, as he had firmly decided that he would not be attending the wedding at all.

The curling letters scrawled upon the lavender card in delicate, golden cursive were surrounded by shimmering rose petals, and at the bottom of the invitation, two silver rings intertwined together. The warlock pursed his lips when he realized that the rings were simply of normal human make.

In fact, he realized, the invitation itself was entirely of mundane design; neither the Fairchild or Graymark family crests were anywhere to be seen, and the famed runes that Shadowhunters were known for were curiously absent as well.

He wondered half-heartedly why Jocelyn and Luke were trying so damn hard to conceal their origins.

_Garroway...Fray..._

He rolled his eyes, not even _attempting_ to hold back a sneer. _Yes_, he thought, _because Jocelyn hiding from her life as a Shadowhunter before has _never_ caused any problems for her, now, has it?_

As if hiding their Shadowhunter names could pull the wool over Sebastian's eyes.

And that's what this sorry spectacle was all about, wasn't it? The fact of the matter was that the Shadowhunters, who had never claimed to be anything less than godlike in their self-imposed superiority, were absolutely terrified of Sebastian Morgenstern's capabilities.

_And no one fears him less than his own mother_, Magnus thought, a curious frown playing upon his lips.

It didn't take a genius to understand that her fear was certainly well placed. After all, the warlock thought, she had all but abandoned the boy, and when he and Jace had come for Clary less than two months ago, she had heartlessly told him that she'd wished she had slaughtered him in his crib.

If the boy were to take out his anger and hatred on any one Shadowhunter in particular, it would most certainly be her.

Perhaps she truly did want to live a normal human life, Magnus thought, but surely by now she should have realized that a wish that preposterous could only end in heartache and disaster?

Even a _Shadowhunter_ wedding, a ceremony she _should_ have felt more in line with, had ended in emotional torment for her, and had brought devastation to her daughter and those around her.

_Face it, Fairchild_, Magnus thought, bitterly. _There are those of us doomed to live out our lives alone and heartbroken. You're not a special case simply because you've got angel in your veins._

Judging by the invitation, it appeared that Luke was even trying to hide his connections with the pack. Magnus sighed; when would all these Shadowhunters and Downworlders learn that they were not human, and would simply never be?

It seemed strange to him to think of Jocelyn Fairchild as the mother of Clarissa Morgenstern. Aside from their appearances, the two seemed hardly alike at all. Perhaps Jocelyn had been more head-strong in her youth and her days spent in the Circle, but she had certainly not succeeded in passing on her deep-rooted hatred of everything Shadowhunter and Clave to her daughter.

In that respect, Magnus thought, sadly, she had succeeded more with Sebastian, the child whom she had despised from his birth.

And maybe, he thought, his lips twisted down into a heavy frown, just maybe, this was the only time for a wedding. Maybe Jocelyn and Luke were truly head-over-heels in love, though the warlock was prone to scoff at such declarations from mortals, and they knew that now was the only time they might ever have to seal the deal.

_Then again_, he thought, bitterly, _neither of them are immortal. It's not as if Luke's going to try and _steal_ Jocelyn's years _away_ from her, so maybe they really _are_ in love._

Thinking about the dark-haired Shadowhunter boy left him with a crushing pang in his chest. He hadn't thrown a single party, hadn't balled up his heartache and stashed it under the refrigerator like he normally would have, hadn't gone out into the Downworlder underworld and taken some vampire or young magic-doer into his bedroom to forget about all the pain.

Was it fair, he wondered, achingly, to be forced to fall so devastatingly in love with a person who could never give you their heart in the same way that you so freely offered up yours?

He looked out the kitchen door from the chair he sat in, eyeing a glimpse of the rest of the apartment.

The apartment was devoid of Alec's belongings now. He had left the blue scarf Magnus had bought him, though, draped over the back of the leather sofa. Perhaps the boy had left it as some cruel form of punishment for the warlock, for it still reeked of the Shadowhunter's familiar scent.

Without Alec's possessions cluttering up the apartment, the usually festive home seemed so hollow, almost...skeletal. It was like a demon had impaled its claw through Magnus' chest, and ripped his heart apart, gutting everything that had once made him who he was.

For so long he hadn't simply thought of himself as Magnus Bane, but as Magnus Bane and Alec Lightwood. The Shadowhunter, damn it all to hell, had become an integral part of him, with his pretty blue eyes, endearingly careless appearance that so contrasted his own flare for the finer things in life, and a sense of shy maturity that had seemed more suited for one well beyond his years.

But all of that had been thrown away and lit on fire.

For one so intelligent and mature, Magnus thought, harshly, Alexander Lightwood was a social disaster.

He glared down at the invitation, and hated it in all of its elegant simplicity.

_Stupid rings and stupid lettering and stupid...albeit pretty...lavender shade, and stupid faint lemon spritz scent..._

Gods, how he wanted that.

He wanted it more than anything, to have one of those beautiful silver rings that were so wonderfully devoid of Shadowhunter or Downworlder markings, and to have someone dear claim the other ring as their own...

But he would never have that.

He would never have that, because no one would ever have him, would never offer up their hearts long enough to make a dent in his long life.

_No one but Alec_, he thought, his vertical pupil eyes beginning to water.

He had never hated anyone more than he hated Alexander Gideon Lightwood at this very moment in time. But there had also never been anyone whom he had loved with so much, and heartbrokenly, he knew that there never would be after this.

He stared at the intertwined rings, focusing all of his energy and magic on the two circlets of burning silver. A spark ignited in the very center of the rings, singeing the glittering designs and lighting the invitation aflame, turning the pretty lavender shade to a dirty, ashy black, causing the paper to curl in on itself and crumble, until the invitation was nothing more than a pile of ashes on the kitchen table and the acrid stench of burnt paper and ink.

He shot a sidelong glance at Chairman Meow, who was lazing on the kitchen table, seemingly unbothered by the destruction of the wedding invitation, his turquoise eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Don't you give me that look," he snapped, jabbing a tan index finger at the tabby.

Chairman Meow's glare merely deepened.

Magnus rolled his eyes. "Oh, come now. The only reason they even want me there in the first place is in case something catastrophic happens, such as Sebastian riding into the city on a nine-headed Chinese dragon." He waved a hand in dismissal. "And besides, I never even liked any of them to begin with."

The cat jumped to his feet, shaking his lean frame, scattering clouds of hair as he did so. Shooting one last look of contempt in Magnus' direction, he leapt off the table, padding off toward the living room.

Magnus shot an embittered glare down at the charred ashes of the wedding invitation littering his dining table.

Even the goddamn _cat_ didn't want to be with him.

* * *

"So Camille is dead?"

Simon shot Isabelle an incredulous look, and said, "Isabelle!" in an exasperated tone.

The dark-haired girl furrowed her brow in confusion, and asked, "What?"

"_Isabelle_," Simon said, unable to believe that he was _actually_ being forced to explain this to the girl, "you're not supposed to talk about _death_ at _weddings_."

"Yeah, and you're also not supposed to wear inhumanly constricting black suits either." Jace sat down next to Simon, looking thoroughly miserable in his form-fitting attire.

"Oh, that's right," Simon said. "Clary told me you all wear _gold_ at _your_ weddings."

Jace raised an eyebrow, and said, in an inquisitive tone, "You don't seem all too thrilled by that."

"It's just that _white_ is for weddings. It symbolizes purity and whatnot, right? I mean, what the hell does _gold_ even _symbolize_?"

Isabelle flipped her hair, sighing impatiently. "It isn't about _symbolism_, Simon. It's about _practicality_," she explained, as if everyone who was anyone should know this.

"Oh, yay," Jace deadpanned. "Lessons in practicality from the Shadowhunter who dresses like a dominatrix to fight demons."

Isabelle shot a dark glare toward Jace, and explained, "Shadowhunters don't know peace, Simon, even when it comes to things like weddings. You could be attacked at any minute, and all this white, frilly crap would just get in the way."

The vampire held back a grimace at the young Shadowhunter girl's description of a human wedding. _Why are you acting so stung, anyway?_ a voice inside his head snapped. _It's not like you two could _ever_ have a lasting relationship. You can never have her Shadowhunter wedding because you're not good enough for _them_, and she can never have your mundane wedding because she's simply too good for _you_._

"And besides," Jace added, interrupting Simon's internal moping as a crooked smirk etched across his chiseled features, "blood splatters on a gold suit would really bring out my eyes."

Simon rubbed the bridge between his nose, sighing. "You're real sick, Wayland, you know that?"

His grin widening, Jace retorted with, "Actually, Daylighter, I feel in top form." His grin fell into a grimace, and he added, "Well, aside from the suit, of course."

"Too tight?" Simon quipped, mock concern adorning his voice. "No demon fighting for a week or so making you feel out of shape?"

Isabelle snickered softly next to Simon, covering her mouth to muffle the sound, and Jace pursed his lips, as if trying to control himself. "I'll have you know that if Sebastian himself crashed this wedding, I would do a front flip right out of this ungodly attire and fight him in my boxers, that's how 'in shape' I am."

Simon shot the Shadowhunter a horrified look, and said, "If you tried to fight Sebastian in your underwear, I'm pretty sure he'd just leave on his own, to be honest."

"No doubt purely out of shame because he knows his boxers aren't as badass as mine," Jace replied, smugly.

Isabelle nearly choked on a chuckle. "_Badass_? Jace, your boxers have _rubber ducks_ on them."

Upon seeing Simon's rather bewildered expression, Jace quietly mumbled, "Clary bought them for me after the Silent Brothers let me out of the Institute."

Simon slapped his face with his palm. "Do I even _want_ to know?"

"He referred to them as his 'battle duckies' when getting ready this morning," Isabelle piped in, shooting a gleefully mischievous glance toward the blonde youth. "Funny," she added, a sly look in her dark eyes, "I thought you rather disliked ducks altogether, Jace..."

"Apparently not when a certain redheaded female we know forces him to don them," Simon interjected, desperately trying not to laugh.

The Daylighter glanced off to the side, and noticed Alec angrily fiddling with his phone next to the refreshments, hiding in the shadows, as if wishing to remain unnoticed.

"Hey...what's up with _him_?" he asked, nudging Isabelle and pointing her in the right direction.

Isabelle shot a sidelong glance at her brother, her shadowed eyes downcast. "He isn't happy, apparently," she whispered, a knowing look in her eyes.

"What exactly do you mean?" Jace asked, a worried look on his face. Isabelle looked back at Jace, and narrowed her eyes, remaining silent. "Oh," he realized. "_Magnus_."

Simon leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes. "_Seriously_? We're preparing for a _war_ and Alec and our warlock are having _intimacy_ _issues_?"

Isabelle shot Simon a scathing glare that, had he still been human, would have set fire to his blood. "Magnus Bane is not 'our warlock'; in fact, us treating him like that is probably what's driving them apart in the first place."

"Oh, _come on_, Isabelle," Jace spat, arms folded across his chest. "They had issues _way_ before he started playing pet warlock for the Clave."

Isabelle's eyes widened, a sharp, furious look in her eyes. "How can you be _so_ _insensitive_ about this? Especially when half of their problems are because of _you_?"

The muscular Shadowhunter's lips parted, and he stared down at his lap in defeat. "...Magnus isn't still put off about...you know?"

"Oh," Simon said. "You mean about Alec wanting to shack up with _you_ more than Dumbledore and David Bowie's love child?"

Isabelle replied, "First, Simon…_what_? And _second_," before smacking him across the head.

"Ow," Simon moaned, looking across at Isabelle with a sheepish grin as he rubbed the back of his head. "That actually really hurt."

Jace rolled his eyes. "Take it easy on him, would you, Izzy? We wouldn't want to make the brain damage any worse than it already is."

* * *

Jocelyn Fray sighed, staring straight ahead.

The woman in the mirror couldn't possibly be her...could it?

The charcoal-grey eye shadow brought out the green of her eyes, encasing them in an almost smoky haze. For once she didn't look so tired, so absolutely worn out.

For once she didn't look like she had cried herself to sleep the previous night.

"Well, this is it," she whispered to her reflection, her blood feeling very thin. It felt as if the sky itself could collapse on top of her at any given moment, and her very world could unravel, and she would lose herself, so many key parts of her heart, inside all the tangled threads.

The door clicked, and Jocelyn turned around, fearing that it was Luke; didn't mundanes have a saying about the groom seeing the bride before the wedding? It was supposed to be a bad thing, wasn't it?

But the tangled shock of fire-red hair told her that it was only her daughter.

"We're ready," Clary said, quietly. Jocelyn smiled across at her, almost wanting to laugh. Clary's cheeks were flushed with color, her lips kiss-swollen, green eyes sparkling with mirth. Her hair, which had been so neatly pulled up into a bun, had started to come loose, fiery curls framing the soft shape of her face.

She motioned for Clary to come to her. "Clarissa Fray," she practically sighed, pushing her daughter's hair back, pinning the curls back into a near-perfect bun.

"Morgenstern."

Jocelyn's heart skipped a beat. She looked down at Clary, her eyes wide and bewildered. "What do you mean?"

Clary looked off to the side, as if embarrassed. "Clarissa Morgenstern, that's my name. Not Fray."

"Why would you take _his_ name?" Jocelyn spat, her face contorted into an expression filled with hurt and anger. "_Why_, Clary, _why_?"

How could she be so thoughtless? How could she stand there and act as if her words had no meaning, as if that single name meant nothing at all? Did she honestly believe that the Morgenstern name wasn't a curse that ought to be burned out of history?

"Because Fray was never my name, not really. And because I was never a Fairchild, either. Mom, I was only ever a Morgenstern." Clary's eyes softened, and she added, quietly, "It's all I'll ever be, until..."

"Until _what_, Clary? Until Jace _marries_ you? Do you think that being Clarissa _Wayland_ will make you a different person than Clarissa _Morgenstern_? A name is _nothing_, Clary; it can't change who you are, or the things you've done."

"_The_ _things_ _I've_ _done_? What is _that_ supposed to be mean?"

"Clary, I–"

Clary's eyes were emerald daggers, slicing into her mother as she glared up at her. "You still look down at me for going after Jace, don't you? Well news flash, mom: if I hadn't gone after him and Sebastian, they'd probably both be dead by now." Clary's glare deepened. "I know you couldn't care less what happens to either Sebastian _or_ Jace because you hated both of them from the moment you first laid eyes on them, but that isn't how I feel about Jace at all."

Jocelyn held back a gasp. "Clary...I don't hate Jace. I don't hate him at all, sweetheart."

"But you hate Sebastian."

The words hit Jocelyn like a hard slap across the face, cold and unrelenting. What kind of question was that? Of course she hated him, but didn't they all? He wasn't her son or even Clary's brother; he was a monster, a demon thing wearing the stolen skin of a poor human child.

"_Don't_ _you_?"

Clary's eyes fell downcast, rimmed with shadow and grief. "I know that I should," she whispered, her voice catching. She looked back up at her mother, her expression lined with determination. "But I also know that he's still my brother, and that should count for something...shouldn't it?"

"It should, Clary," Jocelyn said, her voice so soft it was hardly more than a whisper. "But it doesn't."

Clary's eyes began to water, and Jocelyn pulled her into a tight embrace. "Oh, Clary," she cooed, her own eyes stinging, "I'm so sorry. Sorry for everything. Sorry for all the pain I've caused you." She pulled back slightly, and tilted her daughter's chin up, so that they were gazing into each other's eyes.

"I'm so sorry about Sebastian, sorry for what Valentine forced him to become. It isn't fair, is it?" Clary shook her head, unable to speak, a tear running down her cheek. Jocelyn wiped it away, sending her daughter a sad half-smile. "Clary, you must know that it isn't Sebastian that I hate, it's your father. It's the Clave. It's every single thing that caused me to hate my life and all that the order of Shadowhunters stand for."

Her eyes shone, and she bit her lower lip, ever so slightly. "I loved Jonathan, but he's Sebastian now, and that makes all the difference in the world, Clary. Please try to understand."

Clary pulled away, wiping at her eyes. "I understand," she whispered, though, judging by the tone of her voice, Jocelyn very much doubted that she did, or ever really would.

Jocelyn smiled, although it didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's the Clary I know," she said, her voice soothing and warm. "Now you should go, it's almost time."

Clary nodded, silently, and left the small room, shutting the door behind her. Jocelyn looked back into the mirror one final time, and smiled, a soft, achingly sad half-smile.

This was the final time she would ever gaze into the eyes of Jocelyn Fray, or Jocelyn Fairchild, or especially Jocelyn Morgenstern.

She had told Clary that a name was nothing, but to her, her name had always been everything. She had lived for years trying to stand up to the expectations put on her as a Fairchild daughter, only to have them intensify tenfold when she had taken the Morgenstern name. And now, she thought, sadly, she had lived for seventeen years as Jocelyn Fray, a woman who had never even existed at all, not truly.

But tonight, she would be Jocelyn_ Garroway_.

And that, she thought, her eyes shining in the glass reflection, truly did make all the difference in the world.

She opened the door, running her hands down the front of her wedding gown, and made her way to the door leading out into the garden.

She had asked Magnus to walk her down the aisle, but she knew that, even as she came closer and closer to the entryway, he wouldn't be there. He hadn't answered her calls, hadn't opened up his door to her. It seemed to her that Magnus Bane had become more ghost than warlock these past few weeks.

She inhaled, and let out a deep breath of air, her body trembling. She reached out for the doorknob, and began to turn it, ever so slowly–

"Were you planning on starting without me? Because I was rather under the impression that I was always the life of the party."

Jocelyn whipped around, her head in a daze. There Magnus Bane stood, his tall, wispy form silhouetted in an exquisitely cut suit, the violet cuffs and collars sequined, a magenta lily blossom pinned to his front. His eyes were shadowed in glistening purple, and the gossamer eye makeup curled out and upwards, giving him an almost ethereal look. He had apparently abandoned his usual spiky-haired visage, and instead, his ebony locks hung to his shoulders, fluffy and soft to the eyes.

She inhaled a sharp breath of air, and whispered, "Magnus..."

"The one and only," he replied, grinning.

"I can't believe you came," she said, bewildered. "I mean...it's just that I thought..."

The warlock's eyes narrowed, softly. "I wasn't _going_ to come, Jocelyn. Recent events in my life have embittered me to the romantic endeavors of others. But I..." He smiled, his cat eyes glistening. "Well, I figured I owed you; I wouldn't have even met Alexander Lightwood, had it not been for the decisions you made regarding your daughter and my powers."

She smiled, sheepishly, and he offered his harm out to her. "Shall we embark upon one final rendezvous, Ms. Fray?" Jocelyn smiled up at him, and connected her arm with his, and the warlock pushed the wooden door open, leading the former Shadowhunter out into the sunlit garden.

All eyes turned to them, and Jocelyn paled, her eyes going wider than saucers. Magnus, being his usually sparkly self, said through a clenched smile, "Breathe, Jocelyn, or you're going to make Luke a widower before you've even tied the knot."

Jocelyn nodded, and the warlock began leading her down the aisle, past all the staring, smiling faces, toward her future husband.

She had asked Maryse Lightwood to be her maid of honor, but the woman had claimed that, to leave the Institute unguarded for even one evening would be to 'shirk her duties'. But Jocelyn wasn't angry with her; no one enjoyed being reminded of their days with Valentine in the Circle, and she understood perfectly well that even looking at Valentine's old wife would certainly be enough to bring back too many painful memories.

But there Clary stood, near the altar, across from Simon, who was acting as Luke's best man. She looked so stunning, Jocelyn though, and smiled, her eyes shining. No wonder Jace was so head-over-heels for her. In a way, she was glad Maryse had turned her down, because no one could ever mean more to her than her daughter did.

Magnus shot one last glittery smile down at her, before flitting off to the side, to stand next to Clary. Jocelyn walked the last few remaining steps up the alter, until she stood across from Luke, gazing up at him with moist eyes.

There were so many things she wished she could say to him, so many apologies she knew she would never be able to give him, because there were some things that simply could never be forgiven.

The only thing she could see when gazing into the blue of his eyes was that far-off night, when Luke had been bleeding and terribly hurt, and Valentine had offered him that wicked blade, telling him that, if he still harbored any ounce of Shadowhunter within, he would end it before letting the Downworlder poison consume him.

And she had hid in the house, sobbing, like a coward, her head buried in her pillow as she had simply let her husband drag Luke outside the house to kill himself.

"I love you, Luke," she whispered, all the while knowing that it would never be enough, that Luke would always be too good for her, forever out of her reach.

He smiled down at her, his eyes shining. "I love you, Joce," he whispered back, and she blushed at his pet name for her. Somewhere off in the distance, she heard someone who sounded distinctly like Jace snicker, which only caused her blush to deepen.

She offered him the Fairchild ring, which was attached to a golden chain; a silver band with an elegant F rising out of the metal, two sapphire faery wings on either side. He slipped it around his neck, as the ring was meant for a woman's slender fingers, the ring now lying against the front of his suit. Luke reached into his suit pocket and withdrew the old Graymark ring, a silver band with a ruby wolf curling around the ring, its jaws snapping at the large, silver G. He wore gloves, so that he wouldn't touch the silver that was poison to him, and slipped it onto Jocelyn's ring finger, just loose enough to allow circulation, but tight enough to never slip off and become lost.

Staring up into one another's eyes, as if mesmerized, they took each other by the hands and drifted down the alter stairs, and began to dance, faint, haunting music rising up in the distance.

It was an ageless tune, soft violin notes wafting through the air, accompanied by faint, barely audible voices aglow with a surreal, otherworldly shimmer. It was something they had first heard in the days of their youth, when they had both been so dangerously enamored with Valentine Morgenstern. They had been waiting in the woods for him to return, just the two of them, when the Will-O-the-Wisps had surrounded them, glowing fiercer and brighter than the sun, brighter even than their Seraph blades.

The Faeries had flitted through the trees, dancing among the foliage, all the while the hauntingly beautiful music had ghosted through the forest, ethereal and wondrous.

They had been so drunk on Faery magic, so absolutely intoxicated, the two Shadowhunters had danced together throughout the clearing, painted in silver moonlight, their bodies loose with the Faery drugs rushing through their veins.

Exhausted, they had fallen together on the ground and laughed the night away, their fingers outstretched and so close to touching. They had simply laid there in the clearing, coming down off the most ethereal and magnificent high.

Valentine had returned, only to laugh at the state they had been in. He had joined them, then, dancing and carefree under the watchful eyes of the Faeries and their intoxicating magic, but it had been different afterwards. Luke had been more reserved, and Valentine had been more possessive in his lustful dancing with Jocelyn, who had been so carelessly giddy with Faery magic that she had been just as equally predatory with him.

What had the Fair Folk known, all those years ago? Had they come to force the two Shadowhunters together, to create a spark that hadn't been there before?

Perhaps they were an even wiser race than previously believed, she thought.

The music faded to nothing more than a fleeting echo, and Luke stared down into Jocelyn's eyes, their gaze intensified and deep, before she pulled his face down to hers and the two entered into a soft, almost ghost-like embrace.

Somewhere in the distance she could hear clapping, and it sounded like Clary was sobbing. She turned to glance at her daughter, tell her how happy she was to have her and Luke as her family, when her blood froze in her veins.

There, standing just beyond a teary-eyed Clary clinging to a smiling Jace, was Sebastian Morgenstern, gazing across at his mother with eyes of cold fire.

* * *

Alec despised weddings.

Maybe because he knew he could never have one. He couldn't have a mundane wedding, and he knew he certainly couldn't have a Shadowhunter wedding, especially if he continued to 'fraternize', as his father had so eloquently put it, with Downworlders like Magnus Bane.

Sure, Luke and Jocelyn _seemed_ happy, but they also had absolutely nothing to lose. They were both past their prime and had turned their backs upon the world of Shadowhunters and the Clave. They were only even regarded as allies to the Clave because of Luke's connection to the pack, and the fact that Jocelyn had hidden the Mortal Cup from Valentine had somewhat put her back in the Clave's good graces.

But Alec was a young Shadowhunter, with his whole life ahead of him. And it wasn't just that he had been dating a Downworlder, it was also that he had been dating a _male_ Downworlder; Jocelyn and Luke certainly didn't have to worry about _that_ issue either.

Alec paced back and forth near the refreshments, staring down at the new phone that had replaced his broken one.

No text. Not a single one.

"_Damn_ _it_," he spat, clenching the cellular device in his right fist, before putting it in his suit pocket. Why wouldn't he answer? He couldn't honestly be _that_ upset, could he?

_After all_, Alec thought, _he saved me in the subway station, didn't he?_

Alec sighed, hating how utterly confused he was.

The truth of the matter was that he really didn't _know_ if it had been Magnus who had saved him at all. Jace had claimed that he and Clary had found him almost perfectly healed, but his stele had been too far for him to reach, and not a trace of another living creature could be found.

_Unless_, Alec thought, _unless that living creature was an immortal warlock who didn't _want_ to be found._

By the Angel, it was all so _terribly_ confusing.

_I mean, what more does he _want_ from me?_ Alec thought, frantically. _I moved my stuff from his stupid apartment, just like he asked. I haven't gone back to see him, just like he wanted. None of my friends have bothered him at all, either._

Magnus Bane was just being petty and insensitive, and...

Alec's eyes fell downcast. _No_, he thought, _that's how _I've_ been behaving._

Suddenly, his phone buzzed, and he practically ripped into his pants pocket, bringing the device out and flipping it open, his blood pounding, heart racing–

A text message, he realized. Only it was a text message from Jace, not Magnus.

_What happened between you and Magnus?_

Alec smiled softly to himself; Jace was always so matter-of-fact, at least when it came to business with his Parabatai.

He started to type away, and then frowned.

No, he couldn't tell his Parabatai. He couldn't tell anyone, not really. What was he _supposed_ to say? That he had behaved like a foolish, petulant child and thrown away the only romantic relationship he had ever been a part of?

So he instead replied with the vaguest, most pathetic excuse he could have possibly sent to the other Shadowhunter:

_Stuff._

He glanced off in the distance, and found Jace's narrowed eyes glaring across at him.

The blonde Shadowhunter stood up, and seemed as if he were about to stomp over toward his Parabatai, when Alec saw Clary cut across his vision, and then Jace was all smiles and carelessness, just as _they_ had once been before the Shadowhunter girl had ever come into their lives.

They seemed to melt into one another, fingers intertwined as they stood together, eyes locked on each other's. Alec tried to ignore the slight pang in his chest, but it was constantly a nagging bother, tugging at his heart and lying dormant in the darkest corner of his thoughts.

He knew that half the reason he could never be so intimate with Magnus was because he had always wanted what he had had with the warlock, only with Jace Wayland instead.

Achingly, he wondered what made Clarissa Morgenstern so special. Yes, they both had angel in their veins, _real_ angel, but he was his _Parabatai_, for Raziel's sake! Alec knew that such a union between Parabatai was forbidden, but since when had Jace Wayland ever followed by the rules?

Alec had known Jace in a far more intimate sense than Clary could ever possibly hope to, hadn't he? In the heat of battle, when fighting side-by-side, back-to-back, there wasn't Alec and Magnus, or Jace and Clary, or anyone else. It had only ever been Jace Wayland and Alec Lightwood.

And after all the blood and pain, when they had been standing, breathless and full of bloodlust, in a circle of slain demons, sweat dripping off their brows and the scent of iron and angel tugging at their senses, Alec had never wanted Jace more.

And for the longest time, he had thought that the golden-haired boy had longed for him in the same way, but then _Clary_ _Fray_ had waltzed into the Institute and stolen everything Alec had once held dear.

He wanted so desperately to hate her, Valentine Morgenstern's daughter. But he couldn't, no more than he could hate Isabelle, for she had become like a sister to him. But though he loved her, he knew that he only did so because he loved Jace more than life itself.

And Jace, he thought, his eyes dry but shadowed and painted with longing, loved _Clary_ more than life itself.

"Hey loser," he heard a joking voice call off in the distance, and he looked to the side, only to see Isabelle waving her arm at him. He walked over to her, gingerly inching his way past Jace and Clary, who were still completely wrapped up in each other's presence. "We saved you a seat," his sister said, patting the white chair closest to the aisle, next to her.

"Well...I guess I'd better get going," Clary said, breathless as she gazed up at Jace, her green eyes sparkling; Alec had to hold back a grimace as she walked away, his Parabatai staring achingly after her.

Jace sat down next to Simon, lost in his thoughts. Alec rolled his eyes, and folded his arms across his chest. Shooting a sidelong glance at the altar, he watched Clary take her place to the right of it, and Luke step up to the altar, nervously fiddling with the collar of his tux.

Simon rose to his feet, following suit. "So Alec," he asked, his tone very soft, "Is Magnus coming?"

"How should I know?" Alec snapped, but at the sight of Isabelle and Simon's shocked expressions, he added, apologetically, "Sorry, Simon, I didn't mean to attack you, it's just that Magnus and I aren't on the very best of terms right now."

The Daylighter frowned, and said, "Well, I hope it all works out for you, Alec." Alec smiled, and from the corner of his right eye, he noticed Isabelle's hand slowly ghost over the vampire's. He sighed inwardly; who was he to judge?

"Thank you, Simon," he replied, shooting the boy a kind smile. It had been a fake gesture, but only because he was in a terrible mood, not because he didn't appreciate the Daylighter's concern.

Simon returned the smile, before walking to the left of the altar, no doubt, Alec thought, acting as Luke's 'best man', whatever that was.

Alec shot Jace a weary glance, and started to say, "Jace, we really need to–"

However, before he could even finish, the heavy wooden door leading into the garden swung open, and every face in the audience turned to get a glimpse of the bride.

Only the bride wasn't alone.

Alec's heart thudded in his chest, loud and agonizing.

_Magnus_.

_Magnus_ _Bane_ was walking Jocelyn Fairchild down the aisle.

The scent of sandalwood was heavy in the air, heavier than Alec had ever known it to be. He whipped around, burying his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. From between his bangs, he saw a tall, gaunt shadow crawling towards him on the ground, and ducked his head down even further, screwing his eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the pain.

_Magnus_...

He didn't watch the ceremony, couldn't watch it, because he knew that, if he opened his eyes even the slightest amount, his gaze would drift over to Magnus, and all that longing and heartache he was trying to bury deep inside would erupt, and he'd find himself completely lost in his desire for the warlock to let him back in.

He heard the Faery music begin to drift through the garden, and put his hands over his ears, unwilling to let its poison make him lose all self-control, especially not when Magnus was so close by.

When the music stopped, he removed his hands from his ears, and slowly opened his eyes. Magnus was standing over him, frowning, looking utterly ridiculous in his getup.

_And...and stunning. Beautiful. Irresistable..._

"Alexander," he said, his voice strained and devoid of any emotion whatsoever.

Alec stammered, his eyes wide. "Magnus, please...I–"

A shrill scream rang out throughout the crowd, cutting through Alec's distraught words, and the Lightwood boy snapped his gaze to his Parabatai, who had shoved Clary back with enough force that, had she never undergone any Shadowhunter training at all, could have easily broken her wrist.

Alec turned to stone, and froze as he realized that Magnus had pushed him back as well, his fists glowing an intense, violet shade.

Magnus...Magnus Bane, who had claimed he never wanted to see or hear from Alec Lightwood ever again, had just shoved him backwards, out of harm's way, just as Jace had done to Clary.

Regaining his wits, Alec looked over the warlock's shoulder, and gasped at what he saw.

Sebastian Morgenstern, silver dagger in hand, his hand gripping Jace's throat, holding the other boy inches off the ground.

The members of the pack in the audience instantaneously sprung into action, changing shape and morphing into their second skins. Alec saw Maia and Jordan in the midst of the transformation, snouts extending and hair sprouting over every inch of their bodies.

Sebastian never took his eyes off of Jace. He merely raised his free hand into the sky, and clenched it into a tight fist, and when he opened his fist, an explosion of silver dust shot out in every direction, and Alec had to shut his hands over his ears to muffle the awful sounds of wolves howling in agonizing, searing pain.

Jocelyn fell to her knees, lying over Luke's incapacitated body, as if to shield him from any more of the toxic substance, and the rest of the pack members, Alec noticed, horrified, were cringing into the ground, caught somewhere between human and wolf, trapped.

Jace grimaced, trying to breathe against Sebastian's crushing grip. "So...on a scale of one to...one-thousand...how pissed are you at us?"

Sebastian's eyes simmered, obsidian and hate-filled. "_Ten-thousand_," he spat, his voice no more than a whisper, and he moved the dagger in a swift, merciless gesture, the curved blade wicked and gleaming under the sunlight.

Alec heard Clary's awful, gut-wrenching scream, even as he heard himself shout out for Jace, the blade plunging into Jace's chest, Sebastian twisting it, cruelly.

Magnus shouted a strange, utterly foreign word, and a bolt of indigo fire shot at Valentine's son, catching him in the chest. Sebastian dropped the Shadowhunter in his grasp, and Jace fell to the ground with a weak thud. Clary crawled over to Jace, covering her mouth in horror, and her brother glared down at her, disgust in his cold eyes.

"Get up off the ground, Clarissa," he spat, yanking her by a fistful of fiery hair, pulling the screaming girl to her feet. "You're a _Morgenstern_, not an _animal_."

"Get away from her!" Jocelyn shrieked, throwing a sharpened dinner knife at the boy, which barely missed his left shoulder. She had left Luke's side, her flaming hair disheveled and makeup smudged across her face, thick streaks of mascara running down her cheeks.

"I should have ended this _years_ ago," she spat, baring her teeth at the boy.

"Well too bad you _didn't_, _mother_ _dearest_," Sebastian snarled, his eyes burning. He raised his hand once more, black eyes locked onto his mother's terrified form, and opened his mouth to utter another terrible, destructive word–

When Magnus shot another bolt at the boy, which caused his hold on Clary to loosen enough for the girl to scramble away, back to the fallen Shadowhunter's side.

Sebastian hissed, and raised his right hand, palm facing Magnus, and quietly said, "Adolebit."

Magnus' gold-green eyes widened, and he clutched at his chest, tearing at his suit, buttons flying as he fell to the ground, convulsing wildly, eyes open wide and staring.

"_Magnus_!" Alec cried out, before dropping to his knees beside the warlock. "Magnus, what's going...what's happening..."

Magnus continued to clutch at his chest, and the Shadowhunter slid out the Seraph blade he had hidden underneath his suit, and cut the warlock's tailored, purple vest open.

Alec dropped the Seraph blade, his hands trembling. "Oh Magnus," he whispered, his eyes burning. "Oh, Magnus, no..."

The tan flesh in the very center of the warlock's toned chest was burning, melting away, and exposing bone and muscle and blood to Alec's horrified eyes.

Sebastian shot a smug look at both Clary's sobbing form and the convulsing, burning warlock, before shouting a harsh word, and snapping his fingers. The silver-haired boy vanished in a cloud of red smoke, curling high up into the sky, which had turned a violent grey, black storm-clouds clustering over the previously sunny garden.

"_Jace_," Clary moaned, cradling the limp boy against her chest, her shoulders trembling.

Alec shot a worried glance at Jace, and then at Magnus. He closed his eyes, knowing that he was breaking some Shadowhunter code for what he was about to do, but Magnus was fading faster than his Parabatai was. He grabbed Clary by the wrist, pulling her closer to him.

"Alec, what are..." she sobbed, mascara running down her cheeks. But he had no time for explanations, and took his Seraph blade into his hand and sliced down into Clary's palm.

She hissed, but seemed to understand, and moved with the dark-haired boy, over to where the warlock lay slumped against the legs of the white chair Alec had formerly been sitting in.

Alec forced the girl to clench her fist, and brought her hand until it hovered just above Magnus's exposed wound. The reddish-gold droplets fell from Clary's hand, hissing where they landed, over the singed flesh burning away, exposing bone and muscle, until the last of it had landed and mixed in with the warlock's own blood.

Magnus' eyes shot open wide, and he took in a ragged breath, his face contorted in pure agony. Alec didn't know when Clary had left them; one moment she had been sharing her angel blood with the fallen warlock, and then the next she was gone, leaving the Shadowhunter and the Downworlder in their own small world.

Alec shot a quick glance at his surroundings, but it seemed that Isabelle was nowhere to be found. Jocelyn was helping to support Luke, while the remaining pack members slowly began rising to their feet, groaning.

And Jace–

_Jace._

Clary held the blonde boy against her chest once more, sobbing uncontrollably.

No...no, he couldn't be...

If Jace were dead, he would know...

Wouldn't he?

"Clary," he whispered, his throat dry. "Is he...is Jace..." But he couldn't bring himself to say it.

But she wouldn't answer him, rocking back and forth, violently racked by silent sobs. Jace's eyes were closed, his chest lying dangerously still...

Alec bit his lip, and was about to take the boy's pulse, terrified of what he would find, when Magnus stirred next to him, causing the Shadowhunter to cradle the warlock's head in his hands. "Magnus, oh Magnus..." the boy moaned, his eyes damp.

The warlock threw the Shadowhunter a devious grin, although it didn't reach his strange eyes. "I love it when you moan my name, Alec."

Alec closed his eyes, unsure if he should laugh or sob. "You almost just died, and the best you can manage is a sex joke?"

Magnus glanced down at his chest, and, to both his and Alec's immediate surprise, the burn wound had already closed up, leaving an ugly, bruised blotch of scarred skin in its place. "Great," Magnus sighed, weakly. "My perfect body; _ruined_."

Alec sighed, resting his forehead against the warlock's. "I thought...I thought you were going to..."

Clary cried out, shouting for Alec's attention, and when the Shadowhunter snapped his gaze to the distraught girl, fearing the worst for his Parabatai, his mouth hung open wide, and he felt Magnus' grip on him tighten.

There, in the very center of the garden, a gnarled, skeletal tree had sprung up from the ground, dirt thrown every which way, as if it had literally clawed its way up from the very pits of hell.

And in the bare tree, a pale white body lay impaled upon its sharpened limbs, golden blood dripping down the scorched bark. Alec heard Jocelyn cry out, a terrible, heartbroken sound, and when he looked closer, he felt his body stiffen, blood turning to frigid ice.

It was an angel.

Its wings had been ripped from its shoulder blades, and its impaled limbs hung at odd angles, making it seem more akin to a broken marionette than a heavenly being.

"D...Demon magic?" Alec stuttered, his fingers gently overlapping Magnus'.

The warlock grimaced in pain, his vertical pupil eyes narrowed in something that the Shadowhunter could not dissect. "Not magic," he whispered, breathily. "Not magic at all."

* * *

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

Poor Mr. Angel. It would appear he did not fare quite so well after the prologue.

You know what the most pathetic part about this chapter is? I was honestly more upset that I had to ruin Magnus' awesome suit, than any of the other much sadder aspects about this.  
Lol I'm such a Malec geek.

By the way, this part:

"Jace grimaced, trying to breathe against Sebastian's crushing grip. "So...on a scale of one to...one-thousand...how pissed are you at us?"  
Sebastian's eyes simmered, obsidian and hate-filled. " _Ten-thousand_," he spat, his voice no more than a whisper, and he moved the dagger in a swift, merciless gesture, the curved blade wicked and gleaming under the sunlight."

Was inspired by one of Clare's tweets, a response to a fan asking how pissed Sebastian was at Jace and Clary.  
The original tweet goes like this:

Fan: "So how mad can we say Jonathan is right now at Jace and Clary...on a 1-1000 scale?"

Clare: "10000"

The next chapter is entitled 'Heavenly Fire' and will, as always, be updated on the last Friday of August. See you then, and R&R please! :)


	4. Heavenly Fire

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

Sorry this chapter is about a week late, but long story short: MAJOR COMPUTER VIRUS.

However...

That's all been solved, because I finally saved up enough cash to buy my dream laptop, so now I can write/upload whenever the hell I want, and don't have to rely on a shoddy PC system.

Things get real...er, more real...in this chapter.  
I'm sorry if this chapter is disturbing, but honestly, I think it's a fair warning to say that we haven't even reached the mildly disturbing parts of this fic; when we get to part two, we'll get to the mildly disturbing aspects, and then in part three, if you're not feeling disturbed, there is something insanely wrong with you.

Anyway, I'm not too happy with this chapter, and I certainly didn't get to edit it as much as I'd like, so constructive critique is EXTREMELY welcome.

**Disclaimer:** I hate not owning this series because there are so many different directions I would have tried to take it in.  
Mainly directions that have nothing to with Jordan and/or Maia.  
...Why do I hate them so much? Is that normal for this fandom?

**Warnings:** Mild language/violence of the demonic slaying variety/sexual situations (AWWWWW YEAAAAH)

* * *

Alec rolled onto his side, groaning. He forced himself to pry his eyes open, and grimaced as he took in the garish, multi-colored curtains, shining against the sun breaking through their soft, gossamer folds. His back ached, and his head was in a fog, the dull taste of alcohol burning in the back of his throat.

_When...when did I even drink any...thing...?_

An arm snaked around his ribs, pulling him backwards. Before the boy could utter forth a cry of protest, a familiar, husky voice slithered into his ears. "Sleeping Beauty doth awaken."

"Magnus...what...why are we in bed?"

Magnus snorted, an indignant, slightly appalled sound. "Well, you see, Alec, when a devilishly handsome warlock such as myself and a badly shaken Shadowhunter indulge in the human treasure known as vodka..." His voice trailed off, leaving Alec to fill in the blanks.

"I couldn't get that tree out of my mind," Alec whispered, trembling, slowly recalling all the nightmares in the past week since the aftermath of the wedding ceremony. "And the angel."

Magnus nodded. "You thought the vodka would help us both forget, I know."

"And Jace..." But Alec didn't have to finish that thought, before the warlock had pressed his body against the Shadowhunter's, giving off a dull, waning heat that Alec could only assume was meant to comfort him into silence.

He smiled, though he could feel how much sadness burned behind that smile. "Your skin is so cold," the Shadowhunter whispered, reveling in the scent of sandalwood and...something muskier, darker. It reminded him of happiness, a sensation that had been all too absent in his life for far too long.

The warlock buried his face in the crook of Alec's neck, breathing deeply. Is he trying to capture the scent too, memorize the smell? Alec wondered.  
Magnus drew back, elbow propped up on a silk pillow. "It _should_ be; you hogged all the covers."

"It feels so empty here." Alec hadn't meant to simply blurt that statement out, but it had been crushing to walk into the place that had once been his home too, only to feel so overwhelmed by the sheer emptiness staring back at him.

Even Magnus' bedroom, once so bright and vivid, seemed ominous and too shrouded in shadow, so off-putting for such a charismatic, lively thing.

Magnus bit his lip, and Alec's eyes narrowed softly. It wasn't like the Downworlder to give off such a blatant sign of distress, normally opting for more controlled, subtle gestures instead. "It's...it's certainly not as...warm...as it used to be, is it?"

Alec shook his head, blue eyes burning. "No...it's so cold now."

He wanted so desperately to scream that no, the apartment wasn't empty, wasn't cold, wasn't so depressingly ruined, shattered.

_They_ were empty. Cold. Ruined.

_We're shattered, Magnus. There are pieces of me and you hanging in the air, suffocating us, and we can't pick them up without cutting everything up to hell._

How was it, he wondered, that Jace and Clary, and Simon and Isabelle, could have pieces of them break, but always manage to pick those pieces up and put them back into place?

Simon and Isabelle hardly even knew one another, hadn't even known each other long enough to truly love one another, had they? And Jace and Clary...

Secretly, he had always believed, selfishly perhaps, that the only truly lasting factor of their union was the lust that they so obviously felt for one another. He knew it wasn't true, not even remotely. But if he told himself that Jace and Clary didn't really love each other all that much, and could still survive on lust alone, then maybe, just maybe...it could work for him and Magnus too.

It certainly wasn't ideal, a relationship without actual love, but a warm body lying in bed next to yours was not something so easy to stop craving.

And there had been so much heat last night, like the rainbow-adorned bedroom had been ablaze with the hottest fire.

But now everything was so damn cold, so frigid, like a demon frosting the air between them, keeping them apart.

He remembered Magnus on top of him, crushing his body into the soft mattress. Their lips had come together, tongues lashing and teeth nipping. Hips bucking, fingers brushing, fabric ripping...

So many sighs in the darkness, so many hitched breaths, all held together with nothing more than heat and friction, two bodies rocking against a frantic, erratic rhythm.

A strange feeling washed over him, dull embers burning in the pit of his belly. He wanted to recapture the moment, burn the sensations into his skin. He wanted nothing more than to pull Magnus' face down to his and steal another hard, burning kiss from him, whisper dark, heated things into the warlock's ears.

But Magnus' cat eyes were narrowed now, far away. Whatever had been pulling them together during the night had been severed with the morning rays slowly creeping through the rainbow curtains.

Alec closed his eyes, shivering, though he feared not quite from the cold.

* * *

Magnus held the wooden door open for Alec, following the Shadowhunter inside the dimly lit café. Warily, he noticed a pair of fey men sitting at the ornate table that he and Alec favored, the older one's hands sliding dangerously low, the younger's almond eyes glazed with lust.

"There are two empty chairs by the window," Alec said, grabbing Magnus by the arm and dragging the warlock over to a harsh, wooden chair, ominously adorned with dripping thorns. What they were dripping with, he hadn't the faintest idea.

"Alec," he began hesitantly after sitting down, trying his hardest not to step into the curiously sticky substance, "Are you sure you're still fine coming here? I mean, it's just that, after the wedding, and everything with the angel–"

Alec shrugged the warlock's concerns away. "I love the UnderCity, Magnus, you know that."

It had taken some time before Magnus had deemed Alec ready to see the one place in Manhattan where Downworlders of all kinds could come together, mingle, live, in perfect peace.

Or whatever peace the Shadowhunters would allow them.

A sprawling underworld, dark and dangerous, mystic in places, seedy in others. The first time he had brought Alec to the UnderCity, the boy had stared at his surroundings, transfixed, eyes sparkling with so much curiosity and a ravenous hunger to see all that this new world could offer. "It's as if someone took Manhattan and turned it upside down," he had told the warlock, deliciously enthralled.

"And _The Silver Tongue_," Alec continued, "is perfectly lovely...aside from the bleeding chairs, and all."

Magnus sighed. _The Silver Tongue_, a typically fey café, had once been a slightly more respectable establishment than what it was now, which was nothing more than a café turned cheap pick-up joint for Faeries who dabbled in the 'love that dare not speak its name', as Alec's father had once so politely called it in Magnus' presence.

"You know," Alec quietly added, his eyes half-lidded, "before I met you, I wasn't even aware this world even existed."

Magnus rolled his eyes, waving his hand in dismissal, though he wasn't in the mood for such antics, not today. "It's not as if we're in another dimension, Alec." He reached for the table, and found a mug of black, lightly sugared coffee waiting for him, and looked toward Alec, only to find a red teacup already in the Shadowhunter's hands. This place was a curious setting, he thought; it seemed that it always had what was required to soothe, and when its customers exited the café, they would no doubt find that their pockets were always slightly emptier than they had been going in.

"We might as well be!" Alec exclaimed, sipping from the steaming cup. "Growing up in the Institute...well, it's not as if we were ever really introduced to places like this, not really."

Magnus cocked his head to the side, hands resting underneath his chin. "_Taki's_ is a Downworlder residence, is it not?"

"_Hardly_. It's only one small place in the middle of the city, and Shadowhunters are at least _somewhat_ welcome there. Here, in this place...Magnus, they look at me like I'm your _pet_, for Raziel's sake!"

"It's because you say things like 'for Raziel's sake' that they send those looks your way. You're so undeniably human, Alec. That's why they're so drawn to you, so curious."  
Alec's eyes burnt with a faint glimmer of anger, self-loathing. "Is _that_ why you were so drawn to me? Because of my mortality?" His eyes narrowed to azure slits, seeming to smolder in the dark café. "Because of my human _frailty_?"

Magnus stiffened, his blood feeling hot; he felt unusually uncomfortable in his own skin, something he hadn't felt since the days of his youth, when his magic, his birthright, had still been looked down upon, as if nothing more than a curse from hell. "_Were_? Alec, I have _always_ been drawn to you. Your humanity does make you soft, a beautiful thing, yes, but that isn't what draws me to you."

"Then _what_?" the boy snapped, his eyes still burning, searing past Magnus's flesh, just as Sebastian's curse had. "What could _possibly_ endear _you_ to _me?_ I'm nothing more than a blip on the radar to you, another notch on your bedpost."

Magnus sat back, his eyes wide with bewilderment. "Alec...Alec, you know _damn_ well that isn't true. You mean more to me than anyone, don't you see that?"

Alec's gaze softened, and that sad, broken light fell back into them, that pained look that Magnus hated so much, mostly because he knew that he was the cause of it, the reason the Shadowhunter could only find sorrow behind everything these days. "How can I?" he asked, his eyes moist. "How can I see that when you never let me in, always hold me at bay? You didn't trust me, Magnus, and in the end, I ended up doing something terrible because you pushed me away."

Magnus' lips fell into a tight, harsh line, his gaze hardening. "That isn't fair, Alec. What you did was unthinkable, unforgivable. What I did was only human; the past is the past, Alec. I wish you could understand that."

But of course he couldn't. He couldn't understand or accept that because the past for him was so recent. Humans were frail, young things, meant to live the lives of candles, melting slowly and then extinguishing in the middle of the night with little more than a whispered word. For Magnus, the past was centuries ago, hardly even worth recalling.

Then again, he reminded himself, certain candles, certain human companions, could never be extinguished; their lights, so solitarily bright, shining intensely in the darkness, were never meant to be doused at all.

A pair of grey eyes, troubled like a storm playing at the edge of the horizon, broke through his vision, crippling his defenses. If he closed his eyes, he could see two young souls entwined in the rain, a woman with eyes the color of warring storm clouds, the other a young man with a hard gaze the color of the sea. Their coming together was perfect, yet utterly tumultuous, terrifying, like the sky crashing down upon the ocean in a raging, ferocious storm.

"Magnus," Alec whispered, his brows knitting together in confusion. "You're...you're crying."

The warlock brought an index finger to his cheek, touching a thin line of wetness. He let out a soft, weary sight. "So I am."

He smiled across at Alec, the gesture faint and sad. How completely awful, heart-wrenchingly cruel, that he had Alec so close to him, yet the boy was so far away that he feared he would never see anything but pain and heartache, anger and frustration, in those beautiful eyes ever again, while there were others, young lovers he had known, had loved with everything he had had, that he still had, whose love had been shot down from the heavens and left to burn away, leaving nothing but ashes and ruin in its place.

He wanted so desperately for he and Alec to avoid their fates, but knew that it was the only one they faced.

And somewhere in the UnderCity, the woman with grey eyes dwelt, living in constant suffering. Though the pain was dulled now, Magnus knew it was always there, tugging at her senses, tarnishing her every waking moment.

Magnus didn't want to follow suit, didn't want to live with that heartache forevermore, but there was no other choice. There was no trust between them, and so there could be no love.

And a bond without love was hardly even a bond at all.

He swallowed, not wanting his time with the young Shadowhunter to come to a crashing halt, like he knew it would. "Is Jace..." He hated bringing Alec's Parabatai into the conversation, but at least when discussing Jace, Alec's eyes would light up once more, become filled with love and passion, feelings he had once harbored for the warlock.

Alec grimaced. "He's breathing, if that's what you're wondering. It's almost like nothing even happened to him." Magnus inwardly cringed, noting how that, although the boy was controlled enough to force his voice to remain distant, careless, his eyes were shining brighter than they ever had with him.

Magnus frowned, his lips curving downward. "But something _did_ happen to him, Alec. Just because the damage hasn't made itself apparent yet, doesn't mean that it's not there."

"Damn, Magnus, you are _such_ a killjoy. Can't you just let it be that whatever it was that Sebastian did to him, it just _didn't_ work?"

"I can't accept that, and I know that you can't either." His cat eyes narrowed to slits. "Watch him, Alexander."

Alec's eyes fell downcast. "I hate it when you call me that."

Magnus raised an eyebrow. "What, _Alexander_? That's your _name_, isn't it?"

"My _mother_ calls me Alexander, not my—"

The silence that fell between them was stifling, palpable. There was that broken doll look in the boy's eyes once more, threatening to strike a blade through Magnus' very core.

"Not..._you_," he finished, his tone cold.

"Why does it bother you so much?" Magnus asked, fingering the rim of his coffee cup.

"Because someone I'm intimate with shouldn't be so formal with me."

Magnus stiffened, setting the mug on the table and sitting upright. "Alec, we are not intimate. We can never be again."

"Wait...but I thought...last night-"

"Last night was a mistake."

The words felt like acid pouring forth from his lips, and he could practically feel the sting slowly burning through Alec's blood, the warlock's declaration a brutal slap across the Shadowhunter's face. Alec's eyes began to dampen, and the boy looked down at his mug, staring into his forlorn reflection in the now cold tea.

Magnus' eyes softened, his lips parted slightly. "Alec, I didn't mean to-"

"No," Alec mumbled, his voice hardly even a whisper. "I understand."

He slowly rose to his feet, towering over the warlock. "Well now, it seems that you got your wish after all."

Magnus looked up at Alec, his eyes wide, scrutinizing. "What...what do you mean?"

Alec's eyes blazed like cold flames, seething. "Because you're never going to see me ever again."

Magnus closed his eyes, trying to ease the burning sensation, hold back any dampness that might escape and further add to the awfulness of this moment.

But when he opened his eyes, Alec was gone, leaving behind only a cold cup of tea and a trail of heartache and fury in his wake.

* * *

"I want to slow down."

Simon stared up at Isabelle with a bewildered expression, his mouth hanging agape, eyes disbelieving. "S...Slow down?"

"Yes," she said, staring down at her black, high-heeled boots. "I want to take things slower than we have been, Simon."

The streetlamp next to the Institute cast flickering, odd shadows over Isabelle's face, causing the angles making up her long, narrow face to harshen, the already thick shadows circling underneath her dark eyes to deepen.

Her usually skin-tight, leather apparel didn't cling quite as tightly to her curves as it should have, and there were new, vicious scars lining her skin, marking her white flesh in red, curving lines.

Simon felt something within him break; some of those scars, those blemishes, those ugly, brutal wounds...

Some of them were bite marks.

Her skin was bathed in a golden light, giving the girl an almost heavenly, ethereal glow against the backdrop of the Institute's old, wooden frame.

No...heavenly was not quite the right word, not for Isabelle, Simon thought. There was something dark inside of her, itching to get out, begging to be released from its fleshy confinement. He thought of Jace, the golden, lithe boy his best friend would die for, and of the angelic flame buried deep within him, burning to bring heavenly justice to the world of Shadowhunters and Downworlders, of demons and magic.

There was a fire inside Isabelle too, something dark and awful poisoning her insides, only it had very little to do with heaven.

And Simon had never hated himself more than now, staring up at her disheveled, weakened state.

He swallowed, his throat dry, burning.

She looked so...drained.

Dusk was settling in, the city sky darkening to a hazy indigo, and the young girl pulled her leather jacket tighter; he had been undead for so long, that sometimes he forgot that she could still feel the chill in the December air, while he would always feel nothing. Lights blazed from the Institute windows, burning the Daylighter's eyes. He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps; he dared not venture any further up the steps, such was the hatred her mother felt towards their union.

"You won't _ever_ be good enough for her," her ruthless eyes told him. "You won't ever be good enough for a _Shadowhunter_." Even the older woman's movements, the angry, harsh sidesteps out of his path whenever her cold, narrowed gaze found him, sang of her hatred, her absolute disgust.

_You won't ever be anything more than a demon._

And looking up at Maryse Lightwood's daughter now, who looked so weary, so broken...

He couldn't say he very much disagreed with her.

He blocked out those harsh, dark thoughts, and gazed up at her with questioning eyes. "Isabelle, I don't think I understand. I mean, usually when girls say they want to take things slow, isn't it because they're afraid they'll get...pregnant, or something?" He shot the girl a sly grin that barely reached his eyes, and added, "It's not like we members of the undead are exactly known for being baby-making machines."

Isabelle's eyes narrowed to black slits, causing Simon to visibly cringe. "It isn't _funny_, Simon! Jace and Magnus could have _died_, all because _we_ weren't where we were _supposed_ to be when Sebastian made his move." Silently fuming, she shot a dark scowl to the side. "This relationship is beginning to seem more like a liability than anything."

"You _can't_ be serious," Simon replied, his tone exasperated. "_Everything_ is a liability for Shadowhunters; you and I could go freaking _grocery_ shopping tomorrow and get offed by demons and Clary and Jace's never-ending list of evil relatives." His eyes narrowed in the darkness, mirroring the girl's dark glare. "Don't use your status as a Shadowhunter to escape from your fear of intimacy."

Isabelle's eyes widened to appalled saucers, her expression one of incredulity. "_Fear of intimacy_? Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You've never even had _sex_ before, and you think _I_ have intimacy issues?"

"Sleeping around isn't even _close_ to being intimate with someone. Meliorn and all your others tools were just toys you used to piss off your parents."

"And how would _you_ know that you're not just another one of those toys _too_?" she snapped, a growly undercurrent warping her voice.

"Because you've been intimate with me in a way you've never been with anyone else in your whole life." His gaze softened, and he whispered, "Isabelle, you've given me your blood."

Isabelle's face turned a sickly, pale shade, forcing the deep, red color of the bite marks to intensify against the white palor of her skin; she quickly pulled her jacket shut, hiding the dark purple and black bruises against her neck, the weakened, humiliated look in her eyes nearly forcing Simon to his knees. "How _dare_ you use that against me?" Her voice was little more than a whisper, broken and devastated against the silence and nighttime surrounding them.

"It's the truth, isn't it?"

She wrapped her arms around herself even tighter, biting her bottom lip. "I shouldn't even _be_ dating you! You're a _Downworlder_."

Simon felt his chest constrict. No one called him a Downworlder, especially not Izzy. "So is Magnus, but Alec still loves _him_," he said, fearing his voice would break; this was all going to hell, and he could do nothing but stand there stupidly and watch it all fall apart.

"_I don't love you!_" the Shadowhunter screamed, and somewhere, on an upper floor of the Institute, Simon saw a pale, blurred face peering out from an illuminated window.

He could feel Maryse's presence, feel her cold, awful eyes boring into them, feel her cruel, tight smile at her daughter's shrill, heartbroken declaration.

His glare deepened, and he took a step back, his mind reeling and an aching feeling rippling throughout his entire being. "Well then," he said, breaking the silence, "I guess there's nothing else left to say, is there?"

Isabelle shrugged nonchalantly, though the moist, shattered look in her eyes told Simon that that fire, that dark, poisonous yearning, was still very much desperate to claw its way out. "Guess not."

In that moment, Simon had never wanted to give in to his baser instincts more; in that moment, all he could see in his mind's eye was a young man, curiously pale even when standing under the streetlight next to the Institute building, kneeling down next to the ruined body of a young woman, her black hair splayed out behind her like a midnight fan, a ragged, gushing hole in the side of her neck, deep, scarlet juices spurting and gurgling over. And the boy, he saw, had never looked so content, so happy, so utterly withdrawn from his surroundings, even as silhouettes of angry figures dressed in black armor leaked out of the doorway to the building, weapons raised and falling against his back in the night.

That boy, Simon saw, had blood dribbling down his chin, coating the front of his white shirt, a black, glossy look in his soulless eyes.

Feeling as if he might vomit, he took a step back, and then three more, before finally forcing himself to turn his back on the Shadowhunter girl, the remembered, cherished taste of her blood burning on his lips, the imagined scent of death and decay still clinging to the strands of her hair.

* * *

When the blade connected, and the squelch of iron sliding into flesh hit his ears, there was that burning, that intimate, deep conflagration raging within him, begging to get out.

No, not begging, never begging.

Jace Wayland didn't beg, and heaven certainly didn't either.

No, the Heavenly Fire living deep within his core, commanded, commanded him to release it, to use it, to purge the world of all its darkness and foulness with it.

But the more he used it, the more it seemed to want back out, to run amok, to...  
To cleanse.

When he had first used it on Clary, by accident, it had seemed so wrong, so...terrible.

But now he was learning how to control it, because of that one mistake. Clary was helping him to hone it, to allow it to strengthen into something beautiful and powerful enough to save everything they cherished, everyone they loved more than life itself.

He would be damned before he ever let himself hurt her again.

But now he craved it, desired its presence so strongly that he would do anything to let it back out, to allow it to strengthen and develop, so that he could one day release it on their most hated of enemies, on the monster who had almost broken Jace like a child's toy.

On the brother who still wanted to ruin his sister.

His own sister. His own flesh and blood.

Jace wanted to throw up, just thinking about it. Seeing through Sebastian Morgenstern's eyes, feeling all of those awful, disgusting urges toward Clary that _no_ brother should ever feel towards his own sibling.

Sebastian, with his hands wanting to grope in the darkness, his teeth wanting to bite down and his tongue wanting to taste...

Sebastian, wanting all of those things with...

With Clary, who was his sister.

_His sister._

He pulled the weapon from the demon's side, forcing a strange, garbled cry from its seven, tongueless mouths, each one just a cavern of skin and bone-sharp teeth.

A soft touch on his back forced him to look down, only to see a pair of striking green eyes gazing back up at him. "Did I hit it?" Clary asked, her tone so shockingly reserved for someone with such a curious amount of bloodlust raging within.

Sometimes, he thought, she had a taste for blood and war to rival that of his own.

He smiled down at her, and received an inward swell of pride when her eyes lit up, just for him.

For him.

Not for Sebastian.

"Right in its vitals," he said, beaming as he handed her the seraph blade, still dripping with the monster's insides. Clary gingerly wiped the blade off on the legs of her gear, before sliding it back into her belt loop.

She shot a vehement glare down at the dying thing. "Are you going to end it?" she asked, though the tone of her voice made him question whether or not she would prefer it more if they were to leave it to slowly burn out on its own, before vanishing back into its own dimension.

"No chance letting it gather up its strength to come back later." His lips fell into a hard, tight line. "Best to finish it now."

Clary didn't even bother handing him the seraph blade, and he loved that she already knew she didn't have to. She seemed to understand him more than anyone else in his entire life ever had, even more than Alec and Isabelle, even more than Valentine had.

She seemed to know the patterns of his very essence, his core.

If he had been raised with her as well, had known her as a younger Shadowhunter, he couldn't help but wonder if they would have been Parabatai, their link was so powerful.

But he knew the Law when it came to the bond between Parabatai, and the consequences thereof.

Though he also knew that he would have braved those consequences for her, would have spat at the Clave's Laws for her affections.

He would have still fought for her heart, even if death at the hands of his people was the only possible outcome.

She was worth death.

She was worth banishment.

One night with Clarissa Morgenstern was worth an eternity in a lake of fire.

He knelt down on the ground, placing his hands upon the demon's oozing wound, holding back a gag as his skin made contact with its soft, squelchy flesh, feeling utterly repulsed.

He closed his eyes, forcing his surroundings to blend into the silence, into the night. Even Clary melted away, her presence at his side merely a faint flicker of brilliance burning inside the back of his mind.

There was only Jace and the Heavenly Fire now.

He hadn't been able to use it since Sebastian's attack at the wedding ceremony less than a week prior, and it had been more than unbearable. He craved the release, yearned for its power.

He was so desperate to not feel such hopelessness, like everything they were fighting for was so futile, and the Heavenly Fire was the only thing that could take away that lingering feeling of apathetic defeat.

Inhaling deeply, he tilted his head back, feeling a sensation not unlike hot coals smoldering inside the very core of everything that he was, a tingling vibration slowly traveling throughout his entire body. The warmth, vibrant and terrible, crept downwards through his veins, desperate to reach his palms, to escape from his fingertips and light the demon aflame.

Desperate to cleanse.

Only...

Only something else was coming up too, something angry, dark.

Something that bore a sick resemblance to the taste of silver and felt as if it contained the very essence of cold, bleeding into all that purity, the precious, raging flame broiling inside of him.

Jace's stomach lurched, and he let out a ragged, hacking cough, a murky, grey substance hitting the cement ground, hitting the demon, whose body began to convulse at its touch, its oily skin rippling impossibly.

He couldn't see Clary anymore. He was all alone in a cavernous void, devoid of life and light altogether. The Heavenly Fire's warmth had abandoned him, and only a solitary, familiar whisper in the darkness could be heard at all.

_One day, soon, I'll be inside of her too._

_And then she will forget everything she knows about the name Jace Wayland._

He doubled over, his eyes wide, devoid of pupils, merely liquid golden spheres hanging on an agonized, horrified expression.

His entire body was engulfed in gold, his veins shining against his skin like black spiderwebs.

His very existence was on fire, and all he could hear was the one sound that scared him more than anything else ever would.

Clary screaming, a shrill, waif-like echo in the night.

* * *

The burning in his throat would not go away.

Even hours later, after leaving the Institute in a ruined state of mind, he still couldn't get the dryness out his throat, or force the hunger pangs to die down even just a little.

The alleyway was dark, a tunnel welcoming him to the hell that was silently raging inside of him.

Simon slowly stepped into the city cavern, his body engulfed by shadow and cold.

Something was drawing him here, pulling, tugging at his senses. He narrowed his eyes, glaring into the darkness that once, not so long ago, would not have felt so natural to him.

He took a step further into the sprawling darkness, sensing life, fighting back the craving gnawing at the pit of his stomach, when something heavy rubbed up against his right leg.

Startled, he hastily stepped back, glancing down as he did so.

A cat, its grey, striped fur matted and falling off in patches, crooning as it padded toward the boy.

Simon sat down, holding his palm out toward the cat, smiling, trying to exude comfort. "Come here, buddy," he whispered. "I'm not gonna bite you..."

It sniffed Simon's hand momentarily, and froze. What was it noticing, Simon wondered? Great, just great. Did he _smell_ dead _too_?

However, the cat decided that it apparently wanted to be pet more than it cared about the Daylighter's strange scent, and butted its head against the boy's hand, purring loudly.

Simon picked it up, allowing the cat to settle in his lap. The cat mewled softly, its back arching under Simon's soft touch. He closed his eyes, and in the darkness surrounding them in the alleyway, he could hear the cat's soft, steady heartbeat, feel its warmth pulsating beneath its skin, beneath its mangy, tattered fur.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, wishing that the cat could understand, and gripped the back of its neck, pulling viciously at its fur, forcing a startled, shrill hiss from the small animal.

Ignoring the cat's flailing limbs and claws, Simon bit down savagely into the feline's throat, needle-sharp fangs slicing into flesh.

He ignored the taste of fur and dirt, and focused only on the heat and the tang of iron sliding down his throat. It wasn't anything like taking blood from a human, not like the delicious taste of Maureen in his mouth, or Jace's angel blood rushing through his veins.

But it was still blood, even if it wasn't as pure, wasn't as drug-inducing. It was still warm and euphoric and perfect and...and...

Awful. It was awful, awful.

Just as quickly as the blissful rush had completely consumed him, it was gone.

Now only emptiness remained, and the only thing Simon could see was Clary, staring down at him as he clutched desperately onto the drained body of a dead cat, her expression horrified.

And Isabelle...

Isabelle, still looking so sick, so weak...

Simon slowly glanced down at his lap, and saw the skeletal corpse of the tabby cat, at its blood marring his hands and staining his shirt and the front of his pants. Morbidly, the vampire couldn't help but think it looked so much like Chairman Meow...

Nauseated, he threw the dead cat at the opposite end of the alleyway, burying his face in his hands as he heard the weak thud of its body slamming into the cement.

"My, how the mighty have fallen," a familiar, accented voice spoke, sending chills down Simon's spine.

Simon whirled around, scrambling backwards on the cement floor of the alley.

There, standing at the entrance to the alleyway, silhouetted in moonlight, was Raphael.

* * *

What a sight they must look, Clary thought, sluggishly.

Her and the Lightwood siblings, sitting on the wooden floor of the Institute, their backs resting against the wall as they wearily waited for Maryse to exit the infirmary.  
Waiting for her to tell them about Jace's condition.

Isabelle, looking unusually pale and sickly, Alec, eyes downcast and rimmed with grief, and Clary...

Clary, covered in blood and demon grime, the protective leather forming her gear covered in brutal slashes, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat and God knew what else.

She closed her eyes, fighting back the hot tears threatening to spill over.

That demon had seemed to move too quickly, its eyes burning blacker than the nighttime surrounding them, its many mouths gaping and snapping at her with thousands of razor teeth.

And Jace.

Jace, convulsing and groaning on the ground, engulfed in a fire so intense that Clary thought the city around them might combust merely by being in his presence.  
She had gripped her seraph blade with such ferocity, such rage, and still the demon had jumped at her with a speed too great for its species, and she had fallen back, hitting her head on the cold, cement ground.

The scent of her blood seeping out had sent the demon into a frenzy, and its eyes had widened, intensified.

She had seen Sebastian in those eyes.

Seen him staring down at her with black, hardened eyes, such hatred, such hellish fire burning behind that gaze.

And she had screamed, screamed out with everything she had.

The blade had buried itself in the demon's abdomen as it had crushed its body into hers, but even as she could sense it dying, sense its very essence seeping out of its hideous body, it had still managed to whisper into her ear, its voice impossibly, terrifyingly human.

Terrifyingly familiar.

_"I'm coming for you, Clarissa."_

She hadn't been able to scream at that, hadn't been able to manage anything but a sharp intake of breath, her chest feeling tight and her heartbeat accelerating to impossible speeds, her blood turning to ice in her veins.

Pushing the demon off of her, she had scrambled to Jace's side, who was still glowing, his veins black and burning against the fiery tones of his skin. She had reached for his hand, only to stagger back, her skin sizzling where she had touched him, the flesh on her fingertips black and smoking.

She opened her eyes, shooting a pained glance down at her hand, at the black, burnt skin. She hadn't let Maryse look at her wounds, hadn't even listened to the woman's orders to go home and rest.

She refused to not be there when he woke.

"Thanks for coming to help us," she whispered, her voice cracking; her throat was raw from so much screaming.

Alec sat forward, sighing. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. "We would never leave you to fend for yourself, Clary, you known that." He shot her a disapproving glance. "Although you two _should_ have told someone you were going hunting."

"I know. It's just that...before all of this Sebastian business started, the four of us used to do whatever we wanted, whenever. Now we're always tip-toeing around the Clave, and we just wanted one night to ourselves, like it used to be."

Isabelle turned her face so that she was looking at Clary and her brother, her eyes narrowed in a dark glare. "Well things _aren't_ like they _used_ to be, Clary, and they're not going to be _ever_ again."

Alec rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing, and Clary felt her face redden under Isabelle's scrutiny. "Isabelle," she said quietly, feeling genuinely apologetic, "I'm sorry this interrupted your date with Simon."

Isabelle's face paled, and Clary suddenly found herself wondering if she had said something she shouldn't have. "I mean, it's just that, I thought you two were, well, you know–"

"Well we're _not_," Isabelle snapped, and both Clary and Alec shot the dark-haired girl incredulous looks. Her enraged expression softened to a slight degree, and she added, "Downworlders don't make good relationship material."

Alec's sharp intake of breath forced both Clary and Isabelle to cringe, and the younger Lightwood sibling's eyes widened, her jaw dropping in regret. "Alec, I didn't mean...I mean, it's just that..." Her eyes softened, and she tried to force a smile to her lips, though it seemed more of a grimace to Clary. "Magnus is different."

"No, he's not," Alec whispered, his tone quiet and controlled, though Clary did note the embittered look in his blue eyes. "Shadowhunters and Downworlders don't mix. It's the way it's always been."

"Well screw that," Clary snapped. "Magnus loves you, Alec. I don't know what's been going on between you two lately, but even an idiot can see that he loves you more than anything."

"And _you_," she said, turning her fiery glare toward Isabelle. "You have _no_ right, no right at _all_ to call Simon a Downworlder, especially not when it's _your_ fault he's even a vampire in the _first_ place."

Clary's glare deepened. "Don't think I've forgotten about the Hotel Dumort."

Isabelle's lips fell open into a gasp. "Clary, I—"

However, Clary never got to hear just what it was that Isabelle was about to say, because the click of the infirmary doors opening closed her senses off to all else.

Maryse Lightwood stepped outside of the infirmary room, looking stern and impassive, though there was something else in her eyes, something that Clary thought spoke of heartbreak and pain, Brother Zachariah and Brother Enoch close behind her.

"Is Jace ok?"

"What happened to him?"

"Does this have to do with the angel? Is it Sebast–"

Maryse narrowed her eyes, and all three Shadowhunters instantaneously fell into silence. "Alexander, Isabelle," she said, her tone snappish and cold, "come with me. Brother Enoch will inform you of Jace's condition."

The older woman's glare traveled to Clary, and deepened. "As for _you_," she whispered, her tone frigid, "as long as Sebastian Morgenstern runs rampant, you are not to put my son in any more danger."

Clary's eyes widened, and she sensed Alec and Isabelle tense beside her. "But I—"

"There are _no_ exceptions, Clarissa. You are no longer welcome in the Institute." Maryse turned her back on the three adolescents, and began to make her way down the corridor, before tuning her cold glare back to them once more.

"Alec, Isabelle," she snapped. "NOW."

Isabelle was the first to follow after her mother, and Alec soon followed suit, but not before shooting Clary an apologetic, shaken glance.

Dumbstruck, Clary turned to the two Silent Brothers, who were close together, almost seeming to be hiding in the shadows of the corridor, lit only by the witchlight stones lined into the walls.

"Brother Zachariah," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat, her eyes wide and moist.

The two Silent Brothers immediately broke apart, their eyes settling on Clary's shaking form. Brother Enoch shot his companion a troubled glance, before passing by Clary without a single word, following after the Lightwood family.

_Clarissa Morgenstern..._

"Brother Zachariah," Clary said, her voice quiet and timid. "Is Jace...?"

_Perhaps,_ Brother Zachariah began, and Clary couldn't help but notice a soft, almost English accent that she hadn't quite noticed before, _it would be best after all if you were to heed Maryse Lightwood's suggestions and rest. It has been a most trying day for you._

"Trying day? _Trying day_? My boyfriend was _ON FIRE_! I heard my brother's voice come out of a demon, and you think my day was _trying_?"

Brother Zachariah clasped his hands together. _Truly, Clarissa, I did not mean—_

"What's wrong with him? Please, I need to know."

Brother Zachariah remained silent, his eyes downcast.

Clary stepped forward, so that she was standing close enough to touch him. "Brother Enoch told you something before I interrupted you, didn't he? He...he gave you that look, right before he left." Clary closed her eyes, and hated herself when she felt the hot sting of burning tears trickling down her cheeks. "What did that mean? What did he tell you?"

Brother Zachariah's face remained a stoic mask, although his eyes, ever pensive and full of a stormy depth, utterly betrayed him. She wondered if he felt her pain, if, had he the ability to cry over Jace, he would.

_Jace Wayland has but several weeks to live, before the Heavenly Fire continues to destabilize and burn him from the inside out._

Clary felt something deep inside of her, the part of her that Jace brought out, crumble into dust. Her lips fell open, and she tried to say something, anything, but no words would come.

Only a sob came forth, silent and heartwrenching, lurching out of her chest, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking.

She felt a body engulf hers, and two arms slip around her. She opened her eyes, and found herself buried against Brother Zachariah's robed chest.

"Brother Zachariah...why do you care so much?" she asked, her voice husky and strained. "Why do you care so much? About us? Jace?" She gazed up into his eyes, and felt her throat close as she took in features that were far too human for a Silent Brother.

His lips weren't sewn shut, pointed and pulled down into a frown, and he had only the two rune scars burned above his elegant cheekbones. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes; the hood of his robe was drawn up, and the witchlight stones cast shadows over his face, so that his angles were even sharper and the exact shade of his eyes could not be deciphered, but they were human eyes, clear as day.

He was so different compared to the other members of the Brotherhood, so very human.

She wondered if maybe he _could_ cry for Jace after all.

"Why do you care so much about the Herondales?" It wasn't an accusation, really, merely a question that had troubled her for so long now.

_Many a great Shadowhunter have laid claim to the Herondale lineage._

"But there's more to it than just that, isn't there?" Her gaze grew more determined, her tone more demanding. "_Isn't there?_"

Brother Zachariah made a noise somewhat similar to a sigh, and Clary startled, such a human gesture coming from a Silent Brother seeming so strange to her. _Clarissa Morgenstern,_ he said, his tone so sad, so emotional for one of his kind, _I have always cared deeply for the Herondales. The reasons why are inconsequential, just as Maryse Lightwood forbidding you from seeing her son is also inconsequential._

Clary smiled up at him through her tears. "How are you so human compared to the others?"

_Many men join the Brotherhood to forget their pain, to allow their heartache to fade away into nothingness; I was no different. However...I have found that, with the passing of time, my sense of humanity has merely sharpened._

"You understand, don't you?" she asked, her lips trembling. "What it feels like for me? To love him so much...so much that I would—"

_Die for him? Yes. Clarissa Morgenstern, I understand more than anyone else, what it feels like to love someone so much that you would sacrifice all else, everything that you are, to love and protect them._

Clary swallowed, the tears flowing freely now. "Were you ever in love?" She didn't mean to pry, but Brother Zachariah had always been such a mystery to her, and to be offered a glimpse into a Silent Brother's past, however brief a glimpse...

It was an offer she could not pass up.

Brother Zachariah's frown deepened, and Clary suddenly wished that she had not asked him at all, such was the agony she saw lingering behind that frown.

_Once, long ago._

It was a simple answer, but Clary felt and heard such pain behind those words, that she broke down into sobs once more, and felt the embrace the Silent Brother held her in tighten.

The witchlight surrounding them flickered, and the shadows encasing his face lightened, for just a split second.

His eyes were still dark, so dark. In that split second she saw a lifetime of heartache, so much suffering and self-loathing.

Was that a flicker of blue in his eyes that she saw, or merely a play of the lights, the witchlight casting a pale hue over his face?

"I'm sorry," she whispered, softly in the darkness. "So, so sorry..."

He didn't say anything, merely let her cry into his chest, listening to her heartache in her last night in the place that had become her home

* * *

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

Things are totally spiraling out of control, in case you haven't noticed.  
And it's about to get a thousand times worse.

Also, as far as the real City of Heavenly Fire is concerned, I'm actually pretty worried about our little Jewish Daywalker.  
Seriously, I find it hard to believe that Clare took away his Mark for no reason other than to make us worry, and she's already confirmed that at least one major character is going go die; we know Jace/Clary will be fine, and killing off either Magnus or Alec will piss off 80% of her fan base. This leaves Simon and Isabelle. Of course, she could cop out like she normally does, and kill off one of the adults instead (And I'm not counting Sebastian, since I thought it most likely that he would die from the start, and he already HAS died before), but when she uses the phrase 'major characters' I think it points more toward the central gang.  
Plus, Simon's death would not only devastate Isabelle, but Clary as well. If you're going to go out, might as well go out with a bang, and his death, I think, would actually be the hardest for the characters.  
He's toast, I can feel it.  
And it sucks, because I actually somewhat like Simon.

Also, for those of you who have read the Infernal Devices as well, you already know that they are DEEPLY connected to the Mortal Instruments. I've already planned out for quite a bit of those questions all us fans have, except for one that's been nagging at the back of my mind ever since I read CoLS:  
Why on earth is Tessa's clockwork angel pendant in the New York Institute?  
Any theories? Because frankly, I am rather stumped on that one, and any help answering it would be much appreciated.

And I guess I might as well let you all know that Brother Zachariah is my all-time favorite TMI character EVER.  
And I feel that I gave away plenty of hints at to who I think he really is (If you don't know what I'm implying, just Google 'Brother Zachariah theories').

Or did I just drop those hints to throw you all off?  
Figured that would be a fairly Cassandra Clare thing to do. ;)

The next chapter is entitled 'The Visitor', and in reply to Mrs. Bane, I can't possibly cut the time I need to upload down to two weeks. I needed this month to get this chapter up; I mean, this chapter was even a little late.

And for all of you who have reviewed anonymously, you should seriously consider making accounts and signing in with them; I feel so bad that I can't personally thank you for your reviews and your critique.


	5. The Visitor

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

**Definitely not as much happening in this chapter, angst-wise. This chapter is pretty much the 'calm before the storm', if you will. We only have two more chapters before the end of Part One, and let me tell you, it's going to end with one HELL of a bang.**

**Get it? Hell? Because they're demon hunters?**

**...**

**Never mind, just read the damn chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the Mortal Instruments and the Infernal Devices, and I do not.**

**Warnings: Language/mild violence**

* * *

"Simon Lewis," Raphael declared, a slight hint of mockery adorning his tone. "I wasn't aware that you even came out at night like the _rest_ of your kind." His gaze sharpened, burning in the shadows. "I was under the impression you believed yourself too _good_ for the moonlight."

His eyes traveled from Simon's shocked form to the end of the alleyway, slowly taking in the sight of the mangled tabby cat's drained corpse. His lips spread into a crooked, fanged grin. "But even a vampire with angel blood is still a vampire at its core."

"Listen, I don't want—"

"Don't want _what_? Blood? This curse?" Raphael's eyes narrowed. "You try so desperately to remain human, like one of your pathetic little friends, but you're nothing more than a monster." Raphael took a step forward, offering his hand out to Simon. "And it is time that you accepted your fate."

Slowly, Simon fought his way to his feet, glaring across at the older vampire with a determined gaze. "I am _not_ a monster."

"Would a _human_ have devoured a defenseless little kitten in a city alleyway?"

Simon felt his stomach churn, and fought back a grimace. "It's not that black-and-white, Raphael. I may not be human on the outside anymore, but I am on the inside, where it counts."

The vampire rolled his eyes, and made a gagging sound. "Please; spare me your insufferable tripe. Your _insides_ have adapted with the curse as well."

Simon chuckled softly, forcing a started expression from Raphael. "You just don't get it, do you?"

"Enlighten me, Daylighter."

"Being human isn't a condition your body goes through, it's a state of mind, a state of _being_."

Raphael laughed, his eyes lighting up like some wicked flame. "Well isn't that metaphysical bullshit absolutely lovely. However," he added, "you are not human. You're a killer, Lewis, a born predator now. You will either accept this or—"

Simon tensed. "Or what? You'll kill me?"

Raphael smiled, his lips turning up angelically. "Precisely."

"You and what army?" Simon demanded, desperate to try and buy some time.

"Well," he began, smugly, "while I myself could split you in half with one hand, I rarely like to engage myself in such dirty affairs as this." His lips split even further, adding a dark, almost terrifying Cheshire Cat look to the angles making up his tan face. "After all, Simon, what would our dear Shadowhunter acquaintances think of the head of the New York vampire clan murdering one of their closest allies?"

Simon grimaced. "You'd be their first suspect, actually, now that Camille Belcourt is dead."

Raphael sighed, a feigned look of regret warping his handsome features. "A pity, what happened to Camille."

"You've wanted her dead for ages."

Raphael's eyes narrowed, his glare deep and penetrating. "Are you implying that I had her killed, Daylighter?"

Simon recalled Clary and Jace discussing the Mark of Lilith carved into Maureen's flesh, and his gaze darkened. "Care to show me your chest?"

Raphael cocked his head to the side, eyebrows raised. "Wasn't aware you were into that, Daylighter."

"The vampire that killed Camille bore the demon Lilith's Mark." He raised an eyebrow at the vampire, cooly shrugging his shoulders. "Wondered if you might be sporting some tats of your own, if you get my drift."

Raphael's grin only deepened. "And what if I am? What then, Daylighter?"

Simon felt his body stiffen, and swallowed, his throat feeling like sandpaper. "You...you can't be..."

The vampire's eyes brightened, and, his gaze never leaving Simon's, slowly began to pull down at the collar of his shirt, until a small patch of bare skin located at the base of his collarbone was revealed.

And there, just as Simon had feared it would be, was a red, garish mark burned into the vampire's skin.

_Lilith's_ Mark.

"I...I defeated Lilith with my _own_ Mark," Simon said, sounding far more confident than he felt. "You pose no threat at all."

"Oh, you mean the Mark that heaven deemed you unworthy to bear?"

A rushing sound filled Simon's ears, and for a second, if he listened closely enough, he thought he could hear the faint, very distinct sound of his own heart beating frantically in his chest.

He grimaced. Only the faint echo of a nearly-forgotten memory.

But it was impossible that Raphael could know about his recent meeting with the angel, and of the consequences that meeting had cost him. In the past few weeks, he had even grown his hair out even longer, to hide the Mark's absence on his forehead.

"How...how did—"

"How did I know?" Raphael asked, smiling. "Well, let's just say that certain angels never _were_ very good at keeping secrets."

Simon took a step forward, his fists balled up at his sides, his expression full of rage. "What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Nothing of importance to you."

"No. You tell me now how you found out."

"I don't think you're in any position to order me about, Daylighter." At that very moment, Raphael snapped his fingers, and three vampires emerged out of the shadows, standing behind Raphael, their silhouettes backed by moonlight.

Simon took a step back, too quickly. "Who are they?" he demanded, surprised at how steady his voice sounded.

"Seasoned vampires," Raphael declared, canines glistening under the pale moonlight. "Much stronger than a measly little fledgling." The dark-skinned vampire pursed his lips, eyes darkening from where he stood, surrounded by shadow. "Even for a fledgling with _Raziel_ in its veins." He spoke the name bitterly, so much hatred burning behind that dark gaze.

Simon could hardly make out the other vampires, they were so shrouded in darkness. The only definable features he could see were three pairs of red eyes, glinting in the shadows just beyond Raphael.

"So what will it be, Daylighter? Death, or Lilith?"

Simon's gaze hardened, and he swallowed, his throat burning. "To choose Lilith is to choose death."

Raphael shifted his stance, his body more rigid now, as if to say, "So be it."

The vampire shrugged, mimicking Simon's earlier gesture. "It's nothing personal, Simon, merely business, you see."

"You're going to kill me in cold blood," Simon griped. "I don't think anything could be more personal than that."

"Eh, have it your way, if you must." The corner of Raphael's lip twitched upward, and, eyeing Simon with a devious glint in his eyes, he said, "Oh, and Simon?"

Simon's glare deepened, the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach intensifying. "_What_?"

"¡Que el diablo te mostraré bondad al llegar a las puertas del infierno."

Simon paled at the word 'diablo', a word he knew to mean the devil. "What...what did that mean?"

Raphael smiled, his lips parting angelically. "May the devil show you kindness when you reach the gates of hell."

And before Simon could think of how to respond to that statement, the three vampires flew at him, their needle-fangs exposed and desperate for a taste of death.

* * *

"Are you asleep?"

Maia mumbled something unintelligible, and then buried her face against Jordan's chest. He closed his eyes, the radiant light from the television set burning against the back of his eyelids.

Holding Maia had become somewhat foreign to him, as if he had never held her at all in his entire life.

She was so different when asleep, he thought.

Awake, she was like fire, burning and full of pain and anger and heartbreak too easy to see building in her soft irises. So ready to strike at even the slightest provocation. So impossible to reach out to, to hold, to touch.

But in the embrace of slumber, she was almost soft, easy to destroy, like something...fragile.

But Maia Roberts was not fragile.

He knew that well enough; too many scars decorated his body now, all from her. Her nails raking down his back, resulting in reddened scars, crescent-shaped teethmarks littering his shoulder blades and neck.

Sex was different between the moon's children. With humans, simple desire was enough. He sighed, and briefly, a glimpse of Clary Fray and Jace Wayland flashed before him, assaulting his senses. He could practically smell the heat, the need gripping the two Shadowhunters, pulling them together, like some cosmic force sent forth from heaven itself.

He of all people understood their desire, understood how the heart suffered when torn from the other.

But still, with werewolves, it was always different.

Clary and Jace believed themselves to be soul mates, Jordan knew, and, while anyone with a brain could see that that the two were very much in love, he also knew that the soul was a terrifyingly complex thing to understand, and that humans, Shadowhunter or not, simply could never quite seem to grasp the delicacy of the matter.

In Jordan's eyes, human beings fell in and out of love like rockstars fell in and out of cocaine addictions.

But lycanthropes...

Well, they mated for life.

So the act of coming together in an explosion of carnal desire meant something entirely different for them.

Clary and Jace could fall out of love, and find love in someone else.

Jordan and Maia could not.

If this ended badly for them, it simply ended.

_Beginnings are always an end for lycanthropes_, Nick had once said to him.

He opened his eyes, and found them blurring. All thoughts of Nick lead to this...emptiness.

Damn Maureen Brown. Damn Camille Belcourt.

_Damn_ _Lilith_, he thought, baring his fangs at the ceiling. No doubt that rotten demon was behind _all_ of this. He had found himself wondering more and more throughout the last month just how long her Mark had been carved into the vampire's skin. After all, hadn't the little vampire brat lead Simon to Lilith and Sebastian's body?

Only to disappear into the darkness without a trace.

It had to be connected. It had to be.

But then again, he thought, bitterly, it didn't matter even if it _was_ all connected.

Because the damage had already been done.

It didn't matter for Jordan and Maia, or anyone else.

And it certainly did not matter for Nick.

Banishing all thoughts of his absent friend to the darkest corner of his being, Jordan shot a quick glance down at Maia, at the dark, tightly coiled braids he found so endearing. She shivered in her sleep, and he pulled his arms around her.

The moonlight spilling from the window into the apartment's living area pooled onto their bodies, bathing the two adolescents in silver and fragments of shadow, and he found himself believing that, if he wished it hard enough, he could will all of this wrongness out of their lives.

Lilith would really be dead, and her abomination offspring gone with her. Jace would never have been possessed, and Clary wouldn't constantly be fearing an attack from the sibling she never wanted. Simon would still have heaven's protection, and the Clave wouldn't be in such disaster.

And Jordan could hold Maia every night, bathed in moonlight, feel her heart beat vigorously against his own.

But nothing in their lives was certain anymore, not now. Tonight, he could hold her and watch how intoxicating she was painted in silver and darkness.

But tomorrow? Tomorrow he could be sitting alone in this apartment, with no one to come back to at all.

He couldn't bare the thought of another night without her.

Sex under the moonlight was like a drug to them, the moon children. It intensified already magnified senses, made everything primal and ethereal, released the animal constantly raging to escape.

The moon took a beast, and turned it into a lover.

She took something animal and brutal, and made it into something soft and gentle.

Primal urges and a lust for destruction and flesh became nothing more than a trembling young boy, gazing up at a shadow-painted warrior with awe and the long-forgotten, human sensation of something resembling love.

And it wiped Lilith and hell completely out of existence.

He smiled softly down at Maia's still form, and leaned in to kiss her forehead, when the apartment's front door shot open, the doorknob smashing into the wall.

"What the fu–" Jordan started to demand, bolting upright and knocking an incredulous Maia to the floor. But all speech died in his throat when he took in the sight before him.

Simon, covered in blood, his clothes hanging from his lanky body in tattered shreds. He drew in a shaking breath, and whispered, "Lilith," before crumpling to the ground in the doorway, ruby-tinted blood pooling beneath him.

"Simon!" Jordan shouted, leaping from the sofa and darting over to the Daylighter, Maia close behind him.

"What happened?" Maia asked, her eyes wide with panic. "Simon? Simon, please!" She gripped the vampire's hand in her own, and Jordan held back a grimace as he heard the squelch of blood over the two adolescent's hands; he wished with everything he had that it was someone else's blood.

But Jordan Kyle was no fool.

Simon had been attacked, and the Clave needed to be alerted.

And, he realized, trying to harden his heart with little success, a life without Maia had just become frighteningly real.

* * *

"You don't look so good."

Alec whipped around, only to find his sister staring across at him with that frustratingly inquisitive gaze of hers.

Inquisitive...nosy...it all meant the same thing to him, really.

He sniffed, rolling his eyes. "You're one to talk."

Isabelle's eyes widened, and a quiet gasp escaped her lips, giving her a startled, deer-in-the-headlights look that didn't suit her terribly well. Alec sighed, wearily, and said, "I'm sorry, Izzy. I didn't mean to...say that. It's just Jace...and I...can't..."

Before he could stop himself, the Shadowhunter curled his right hand into a first, and threw it at the wall of the Institute. He cried out as shards of witchlight pierced his flesh, blood running down his hand as he pulled it close to his chest, biting his bottom lip in a weak attempt to stifle the pain.

"_Fuck_!" he hissed, sliding down the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest.

"God damn it, Alec," Isabelle whispered softly, her voice breaking. "You're such an idiot." She dropped to her knees in front of her brother, and gently took his hand into her own.

She gently pried his fist open, and Alec stared down at his mangled hand with an impassive disinterest. Bits of silvery witchlight stuck out from his skin, lighting up his palm with a faint, shimmering light, scattering flickering shadows about the two Shadowhunters. Tiny drops of blood dripped from his hand onto the floor of the Institute, and Alec wondered when it was that he had become so desensitized to the sight of his own blood.

Gingerly, he shot a weak smile across at her, and said, "This corridor is lined with witchlight. The stuff's literally embedded in the walls here, and we have a notorious habit of punching the shit out of our surroundings when things don't go our way." The smile curled into a bitter frown as he felt his eyes sting in defeat. "So why do we always come here when bad things happen?"

Isabelle's returning smile hardly even reached her eyes at all. "Because we're Nephilim, Alec. We're drawn to suffering, like..."

"Like moths to a flame."

Isabelle shot a dark glance down at her sibling's injured hand, and said, quietly, "I don't have a stele with me."

"Leave it," he replied, his tone dry and emotionless. "I want to feel it."

"You're living in a very dark place now, Alec." Her eyes were soft, softer than they normally were, soft in a way that they could only be when she was with Alec.

Alec sniffled, and whispered, "So are you. You let him take your blood from you."

She stiffened, and said, "It isn't the same."

"It's the same, Isabelle. I let Magnus take my heart, you let Simon take your life, slowly, inch by inch. In the end, we both lose pieces of ourselves that we can't ever get back."

"It _isn't_ the same," she repeated, her eyes narrowed.

Alec scoffed, ignoring the intense burning in his right hand, slowly creeping towards his wrist. "How is it _not_?"

"Because I don't love him."

Alec let out a harsh bark of laughter, curling his ruined hand into a tight fist, desperate to feel the sharp lance of pain he knew it would bring. "Loving someone and being 'in love' are two completely different things, Isabelle. You may not want to marry the guy, but you still love him."

"I couldn't marry Simon even if I wanted to," she whispered, her dark eyes downcast, the flickering witchlight giving her a gaunter appearance than normal.

A flash of anger shot through Alec's senses, and he gripped onto Isabelle's wrist, making her cry out as bits of shattered witchlight scraped against her skin. "I face ridicule from our parents on a daily basis for Magnus, and you let a damn _ceremony_ stop you from being with the person you love?"

Isabelle's eyes widened, and she tried to yank her arm from out of her brother's grip, to no avail. "Alec, it's isn't that–"

"_What_? That _simple_?" His eyes narrowed to cobalt daggers, and he spat, "Oh, _poor_ Isabelle, too _proud_ to lower herself to spend her life with a _lowly_ Downworlder, even though she's ridiculously in love with him, and is all too willing to let him drain her completely dry–"

A sharp crack reverberated from off of the walls as Isabelle pulled back her free arm and slapped it across Alec's face with all her might, echoing throughout the dark corridor.

Alec stared off to the side, his eyes watering. For some time, the two Shadowhunters remained kneeling in the darkness, only the sound of their quiet breathing heard in the corridor.

"Forgive me," he whispered at last, swallowing, shame burning his eyes.

She tore her arm from his grasp and rose to her feet, standing over him like a looming shadow. "Nephilim don't know forgiveness," she spat, her voice like poison as tears trickled down her cheeks.

But just as she turned to storm off down the corridor, a snake-like, chilling voice echoed in both Shadowhunters' ears.

_Alexander and Isabelle Lightwood._

Brother Enoch stood at the very end of the corridor, shrouded mostly in shadow as soft washes of faint, shimmering witchlight cast eerie hues over his robed figure.

Alec didn't even bother hiding the grimace as he took in the sight of the Silent Brother standing ominously at the end of the hallway; he looked like some imposing villain from one of Clary and Simon's awful horror movies.

"Brother Enoch," Isabelle whispered, clearly more preoccupied with being polite than her brother was.

_Maryse Lightwood requires your immediate departure to the Sanctuary Room._

"_The Sanctuary Room?_" Alec asked, his tone incredulous, eyes wide with disbelief. "But that room hasn't been used in years! Why does she–"

_We have visitors who do not belong to the Clave, Alexander._

And with that final statement, Brother Enoch turned and seemed to float down the corridor, vanishing into the darkness.

"A visitor? What does he mean by that?" Isabelle asked, her dark brows furrowed in bewilderment. "Alec, what do you–"

But the older Shadowhunter was already sprinting after the retreating Silent Brother, a deep corner of his heart hoping desperately that, when he opened the door to the Sanctuary Room, a certain cat-eyed warlock would be waiting for him.

* * *

"What Maryse Lightwood did was cruel."

Jocelyn sighed, and Luke had to bite back a scathing comment; there was no need to crucify his wife over something that the Lightwoods were the cause of, though he still couldn't quite grasp how she honestly seemed to believe that it was for the best. "She's only doing what she believes will keep her son safe for the time being. Honestly, Luke," she asked, her voice a soft whisper, "wouldn't we do the same for Clary if given the chance?"

"That boy is her life, Jocelyn. Keeping her from seeing him during his last moments is a heartless, selfish thing to do."

Her eyes flashed, and for a brief second, he thought that he saw more of Clary than he had seen in her in years. "Well _I_ wish that she had never even met the boy in the _first_ place!"

Luke sat back in his chair, eyeing Jocelyn cooly from across the kitchen table. "You can't _possibly_ mean that."

"Yes, I realize that he makes her happy," Jocelyn sighed, pushing her mane of fire-red hair from out of her face. "But I also realize that she's only sixteen years old, and that she doesn't even know what love is."

"Clary and Jace aren't your typical everyday teenagers, Joce. They've been through enough to know perfectly well just how they feel. For God's sake," he added, his irritation finally bubbling over, "she's seen the boy die _twice_ now."

His gaze hardened, and he added, "And he's about to die for a third and final time, Jocelyn. Don't keep her from saying goodbye, because you _know_ she'll _never_ be able to forgive you."

"Clarissa _already_ refuses to forgive me for any of my past mistakes, Luke. This _certainly_ won't change a damn thing."

Luke stood up abruptly, the chair scooting out from behind him. He leaned over the table, staring down incredulously at Jocelyn. "_My_ _God_," he whispered, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You're _envious_ of _Jace Wayland_."

"My daughter learned to hate me the moment that arrogant monster waltzed into her life, destroying everything." Her glare deepened. "Of _course_ I hate him."

Luke's mouth fell open. "Jocelyn, I can't believe you–"

"Why not?" an angry, wavering voice said from behind them. Luke and Jocelyn both whipped their heads to the side, only to see Clary standing angrily at the top of the stairs. "She hates everything that makes me happy, so why would you have trouble believing that she wants to keep me from the one person that means everything to me?"

Luke paled. "Clary...we didn't mean for you to hear any of that."

Clary's eyes narrowed to a poison glare. "Well, I _did_."

Jocelyn, her eyes wide and brows raised in horror, said, "Clarissa, please try to understand–"

"_Understand_?" Clary asked, slowly making her way down the staircase; Luke couldn't help but notice how much power she held in her slight frame now, how much feline grace was making itself known.

Clary, his little Clary, was a warrior now.

And she was pissed.

"What I _understand_, _Jocelyn_," she spat, "is that you fucked up and chose the wrong person to spend your life with, and you're bitter because I found the person I love most on the first try." She shot an apologetic glance up at Luke, and said, "Sorry you wasted yourself on such a bitch," before storming out the door, leaving the two former Shadowhunters too stunned to move.

* * *

Unfortunately for Alec, upon opening the door to the Sanctuary Room, he was not greeted to the sight of Magnus begging to get back together, all hot and sexy.

Instead, he was treated to the sight of Simon lying on the floor, covered in blood and claw-marks, Maia and Jordan kneeling next to him, Brother Enoch's skeletal hand slowly ghosting over the Daylighter's forehead, lingering over where the Mark of Cain once resided.

Not very sexy at all.

He stood in the doorway, unable to move, when Isabelle slammed into his back. "Alec, what are you doing just _standing_ there? Who is it? Do we know th–"

She peered over his shoulder, and Alec felt his blood turn to ice in his veins as he heard her gasp out at the sight that met her eyes.

"_Simon_!" she cried out, dashing forward and bowling Maia out of the way. "Simon, what happened? Please, please don't die..." Her face was frozen in an expression of heartbreak and agony, and fear, Alec saw, and he had never felt more guilty for attacking their relationship.

He turned to face his mother, who, as usual, was stone-faced and rigid. "Mom...what happened?"

"Simon was attacked by the vampire Raphael and a rabid group of his followers." Her expression of impassiveness shifted to one of apprehension. "They all bore the Mark of Lilith."

Isabelle shot a horrified expression up at Maryse. "Simon...he...he doesn't...he doesn't have the Mark too...does he?"

"We've already searched him, Isabelle. He's unharmed," Maryse sighed, and Alec couldn't help but wonder if she wished that he _had_ been found with the Mark.

"Is he gonna be ok?" Jordan asked, Maia kneeling at his side, the two looking very panicked and exhausted.

Maryse shot a solemn look down at the two werewolves, the barely concealed disdain hiding behind her eyes. "I can't say. It's best that he remain in the Sanctuary Room under Brother Enoch's care for the time being."

She made a hurried step toward the exit, brushing past Alec, standing just outside the doorway as she shot one final glance down at Jordan. "I suggest that you and Miss Roberts–"

A wicked, echoing laughter, shrill and thin, hissed throughout the room, interrupting Maryse. Maia and Jordan, helpless because of the Sanctuary Room's ability to temporarily remove their lycanthropic abilities, merely huddled closer together, eyeing Simon nervously. Isabelle remained in a crouch at Simon's side, her golden whip already uncurled from around her wrist and waiting for a taste of flesh.

But Alec remained rooted to the spot, his eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief and horror.

Because he recognized that laughter, that high-pitched, bell-like trill.

A shadow formed in the corner of the room, no more than the size of an orb. However, it began to stretch and expand, shadowed limbs pulling at black webbing, peeling the strange, dark substance away, until it had taken the shape of a young, petite woman.

The woman, dressed in finery from another time, golden ringlets settled against her head in a mock halo of sorts, smiled angelically at her observers, pressing her gloved fingertips together, as if in contemplation.

"Greetings, Nephilim," she cooed in a heavily accented voice, her lips curling back to reveal two needle-sharp fangs.

"Camille," Alec whispered, eyes wide and frantic.

The vampire's eyes glistened with a murderous delight. "In the flesh, Alexander."

"Impossible," Maryse whispered, her eyes wide and incredulous. "The fledgeling Maureen Brown–"

"Maureen Brown," Camille interjected, "is but a tiny little fledgeling, no more than a pinprick in an ocean."

The vampire turned her attention to Alec, and said, "Much like what you are to Magnus Bane."

Alec leapt forward, his seraph blade grasped firmly in his hand, and lunged forward, shouting out, "_Amriel_!" as he did so, before stabbing the blade deep into the vampire's chest.

Amriel sunk deep inside of Camille, deep inside of the ruined heart she carried with no shame, until buried to the hilt. She let loose a soft chuckle, before taking the blade by the handle and twisting Amriel while still buried inside of her.

Horrified, Alec fell back, landing hard upon the Sanctuary Room's cold, wooden floor.

Camille gripped the handle of the seraph blade and pulled it out, a spray of black liquid hissing and bubbling out of the wound, across Alec's chest; the substance began to hiss and solidify, taking on the property of a spiderweb, sealing the struggling Shadowhunter to the floor of the Sanctuary Room. Camille dropped the seraph blade onto the ground, as if nothing more than a tissue.

She ran her right hand across the wound, smearing her palm with the black liquid, and flicked her wrist at Brother Enoch, sealing him to the wall with the same sticky substance that held Alec confined to the floor. She shot a glare at Maryse, and spat another curse, and the door to the Sanctuary Room slammed shut, locking the Shadowhunter out.

"Alec! Isabelle!" she screamed, pulling at the door's handle frantically, but to no avail.

"Nought but a _pinprick_," Camille spat, stepping past the fallen Shadowhunter and over to the three adolescents huddled over Simon's body. "Ah, the Daylighter," she said, fingertips pressed together once more. "How delightful."

She snapped her fingers, and spoke a word in a language so harsh that all but Brother Enoch cried out in agony. Simon's eyes snapped open, and his body, rigid as bone, sat forward, his head lolling as he did so. Camille's nails elongated, and she slid a nail across the base of his throat, leaving behind a thin line of red.

"_Don't touch him!_" Isabelle shrieked, and snapped her whip forward, causing it to curl around Camille's wrist.

The vampire sighed, as if dealing with no more than a petulant child, and touched her forefinger to the whip, which spasmed and flew at Isabelle instead, curling around her body and gagging her, forcing her struggling form to the ground, Jordan and Maia unsuccessfully attempting to release her.

"I'll deal with _you_," she said in a calm tone directed at Isabelle, "in a moment."

She bent once more to Simon's body, and, retrieving a small, glass vial no bigger than her pinky and the width of a nickel from a chain hanging around her neck, she held it under the slight slash mark just below his throat, collecting his shimmering blood until it was filled to the brim. Camille capped the vial and returned it to the chain of her necklace, and once more turned her attention to Isabelle.

"_This_, I believe," she spat, gripping Isabelle by a tight fistful of dark hair, and pulling the girl's head back harshly, "belongs to me."

At first Alec feared that the vampire was going to bite his sister's neck, but instead, she merely brought her free hand to the hollow of Isabelle's throat, and plucked the ruby necklace from around the girl's neck. "My thanks to you, Miss Lightwood, for keeping it safe and warm for me."

She pulled off a blood-red glove, and ran her finger along the throbbing ruby. "_Amor verus numquam moritur_," she whispered, closing her eyes, as if relishing some long forgotten memory.

"Although in your case," she added, eyeing Alec with a cruel gleam in her eyes, "it would appear that it does."

And then she was a plume of midnight smoke, choking the Shadowhunters and the two werewolves, curling about them and engulfing the Sanctuary Room in darkness, her shrill, echoing laughter shrieking in Alec's ears long after she had vanished.

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Clary turned the doorknob to the Institute infirmary, silently creeping her way into the room.

Only to find herself staring at not only Jace lying unconscious on a white hospital bed, but Alec and Isabelle as well, Brother Zachariah and Brother Enoch quietly tending to them as they slept.

Brother Zachariah stood up and turned to face her, his dark eyes widening slightly.

_Clarissa Morgenstern–"_

"Brother Zachariah...Brother Enoch. What...what's–"

"What's going on?" a cold voice asked from behind her, and Clary whipped around, only to find herself staring up into the narrowed eyes of Maryse Lightwood.

"Mrs. Lightwood, I..."

Maryse's eyes narrowed even further, a feat Clary hadn't believed humanly possibly until now. "Why is it, Clarissa, that whenever anything even remotely bad happens, you are always to be found near?"

"I swear, I only just got here! I had to see him, to check...I know he only has so much time left, and I..."

Brother Zachariah fidgeted slightly where he stood. _Clarissa–_

But Clary ignored the Silent Brother's protest, and asked, in a pressing tone, "_What_ _happened_?"

"_Camille Belcourt_ happened," Maryse snapped, her expression one of rage.

"Camille Belcourt? But she's supposed to be dead–"

"Well she _isn't_. Alec and Isabelle were both attacked, and Jace has only a few days left. Clarissa, I don't–"

Clary felt her chest contrict. "Wait...what do you mean he only has a few days left?"

Maryse's eyes widened, and she cocked her head to the side. "Clarissa, were...were you not told?"

"I was told he has a few _weeks_ left...not..."

Clary turned her eyes to Brother Zachariah, who was staring down at the floor of the infirmary. "You lied. You lied to me," she whispered, her eyes burning.

_Truly, Clarissa, I meant no harm in the lie. It was meant to comfort you in a time of heartache._

Brother Enoch put a thin, elongated hand atop Brother Zachariah's shoulders, causing the younger Brother to tense. _While Brother Zachariah's methods were certainly...unorthodox, to say the very least, we can assure you, Clarissa Morgenstern, that the falsehood perpetuated was merely meant to help._

"Help...? _Help?_" Clary cried out, hardly more than an embittered squeak. "You _lied_ to me about my boyfriend's _death_...and you think that's _helping_ me?"

She took a step back, her expression horrified, and whispered, "You're all terrible, all of you. The Silent Brothers, the Shadowhunters, the Clave..."

She didn't even try to stop the tears from burning her eyes, the revulsion and hurt etched clearly across her crestfallen face. "You're _sick_," she whispered. "You're all _monsters_."

And then she turned and ran, the world of Shadowhunters and demons that she had been indoctrinated into now dead to her.

* * *

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

**As for the question of Silent Brothers not having eyes, Clare's actually admitted that Brother Zachariah does indeed actually have dark eyes and dark hair. But it's no one's fault for not knowing this without being told, because she hasn't really seemed to describe him a lot, for fear of her fans figuring out one of her 'twists' (Read: It's not a twist when the only clues presented are deliberate red herrings, or simple information such as a character's basic appearance is withheld from the readers; that's not clever, that's just annoying).**

**Ok, ok, I know. Camille, as Clare has pointed out to fans, is legitimately dead.**

**HOWEVER.**

**Are we supposed to believe that Maureen, a _fledgling_, could kill an ancient vampire like Camille? Because I know that, while reading the epilogue of CoLS, I was all, "Bitch, please. Where Camille be at it? She hiding under the divan?"**

**And maybe it's just because I'm writing my own vampires, and it just completely boggles my mind that a little newbie Drac could off a vampire as old, powerful, and calculating as Camille.**

**So I decided to break out of the canon for this, because where I'm going with this actually makes complete sense, so don't worry.**

**Oh, and in the next chapter...**

**WE FIND OUT WHO MAGNUS' FATHER IS.**

**Also, surprise time!**

**Since November is National Novel Writing Month, I will be participating in NaNoWriMo, so, unfortunately, there will be no chapter uploaded during November.**

**But that just means that you guys get TWO chapters in October. :)**

**Though that also means you have to wait until the end of December for the first chapter of Part Two, and since the ending to Part One will (Hopefully) be shocking and/or heartbreaking, that ought to be fun.**

**The next chapter will be 'The Shadowhunter's Sacrifice' and will probably be uploaded sometime in the next two weeks.**

**Read and review, please! I'm not an expert on all things Shadowhunter, like some of you! So any help keeping things mostly canon (And also well written) is greatly appreciated.**


	6. The Shadowhunter's Sacrifice

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

**Ok, so I'm actually insanely happy with how this chapter turned out. Like, words cannot even describe how perfectly it transitioned from my mind to my writing, which hardly ever happens.**

**If you're not feeling sick by the very end of this chapter, then I'm not trying hard enough. ****I even made my own skin crawl while writing this, at least for the very last segment.**

**And it's about to get one thousand times worse.**

**But read on...**

**You all know you just want to see who Magnus' dad is. ;)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments or the Infernal Devices, which all belong to Cassandra Clare. **

**Warnings: Very mild violence in Alec's section/Language throughout/General creepy and/or uncomfortable vibe in the very last segment.**

* * *

Christmas Eve was a happy time, meant to be shared with loved ones, Clary thought, not trudging listlessly through Brooklyn at six in the afternoon.

Then again, she thought, a deep, melancholy ache ringing through her bones, Jace was lying comatose in a hospital bed, surrounded by prodding Silent Brothers and teary-eyed Lightwoods.

She would have given anything to be with him just then, even if it was Christmas Eve, but she couldn't go back, not after Isabelle's betrayal.

"Clary," she had said, her eyes dark and sorrowful, "don't come back to the Institute. You've had your time with him, now he needs to be with his family."

She knew it was basically just Maryse Lightwood's words being spoken through her conflicted daughter's lips, but still, she thought, it had hurt to hear those words spoken by Isabelle, whom Clary had come to regard as a sister, or at least she had thought as much.

And even though Clary was an only child–

But she wasn't an only child, not truly.

Briefly, she wondered where her brother was, if demons even acknowledged Christmas Eve.

A vision ran through her mind's eye, like a haunting fabricated memory, something out of a happy childhood that was never to be; two small children, one the child version of herself, the other a thin, fair-haired Sebastian, both nestled against their mother, who was reading to them in front of a roaring fireplace, the dark eyes of Valentine Morgenstern twinkling with happiness as he leaned down to place a soft kiss upon Jocelyn's forehead...

Her heart feeling as if it might cave, Clary willed the image away, and hoped that wherever he was, Sebastian was alone and heartbroken, just like she was.

But she knew that he wasn't, not really.

Because monsters couldn't feel heartbreak.

She looked up, and found that, through her bleak musings, she had come to arrive at her destination. She exhaled deeply, and knocked hard upon the door three times.

No one answered.

"Magnus, it's _me_, _Clary_!" she snapped, and then added, rather darkly, "And don't pretend that you're not home because your lights are on!"

Still no answer.

"Magnus, I know that you and Alec aren't exactly on the best terms right now, but we _need_ your help. Simon was attacked by Raphael, and Camille Belcourt is back...she's working for Lilith now."

Clary took a deep breath, and added, quietly, "And _Jace_...Magnus, Jace is _dying_."

The only answer she received was yet more silence.

Enraged, she balled her right hand into a tight fist, and slammed it into the door to the warlock's apartment. It did nothing to damage Magnus' door, and she was left with only a dull ache in her fist that brought stinging tears to her eyes.

How could he sit in there in his posh apartment while Jace lay dying in the Institute infirmary? Even if Magnus wanted to pretend that Jace and Clary and all the rest of the New York Shadowhunters meant nothing to him, how could he claim the same of _Alec_?

"Magnus," she pleaded, her tone bordering on desperation now, "Jace is Alec's _Parabatai_. They're connected at the _soul_, and if Jace _dies_..."

She closed her eyes as burning tears escaped from her eyes, and, feeling the shame even before she said the words, whispered, "Just think what it would do to Alec, Magnus..."

She swallowed, but when she opened her eyes, the door was still shut against her, silence all around.

She bit her lip, screwing her face up into a hateful, seething grimace. "You don't know what love even _is_!" she spat, glaring emerald daggers into the door. "You're just some bitter, unmovable _coward_."

And it was the truth, wasn't it? Forever had hardened him, and no matter how much he claimed to be so knowledgeable on matters of the heart, the warlock was not human. He didn't understand the intricacies of the bonds made between humans like Clary and Jace, couldn't understand the intensity held between mortal lovers.

_How could he? _Clary wondered, bitterly. _He's been alive for ages. He can't possibly _still_ feel love after all this time, can he?_

"Your heart is _stone_, Magnus Bane," she spat, before turning on her heels and setting off the way she had come.

And then the creak of the apartment door caught her attention, and she whirled around, eyes wide as they took in the sight of a bedraggled Magnus standing in the shadows lurking just beyond his doorway. He was so shrouded in darkness that she could just barely make out his even gaunter than usual form, clothed in a long, flowing robe that looked as if its material were made of the very substance that made up the night sky hanging over a quiet countryside. His cat eyes were illuminated like wild fires in the darkness, like a demon waiting just beyond a thin veil of deceptive shadows.

Clary had never feared him more than at that very moment.

"You think," he whispered, his voice a low murmur harboring a darkness not natural to his usually silky voice, "that because you carry the Morgenstern name, that because angel burns in your blood, that you can cast _judgement_ upon me?"

Clary stiffened, and took a few steps closer to the apartment door, but stopped short when she saw the strange, glowing gaze of the warlock narrow harshly in the darkness. "Magnus, I didn't mean–"

"_No_," he snapped, and the Shadowhunter paled instantaneously. "You know _nothing_ of _judgement_, _Nephilim_." He spoke the word so hatefully, like she had heard so many Shadowhunters before say the word 'Downworlder'. "How could you," he asked, his tone growing darker, deeper, "child of the angels, warrior of _God_?"

He didn't seem human anymore, he didn't even seem like a warlock now. Clary was suddenly struck terrified as she realized just how inhuman Magnus truly was, and wondered how much demon actually ran through his blood.

His voice was was taking on a more gravely note, like a voice somewhere out of a child's dark, long-since repressed nightmare. "I have loved with more of my heart than you can even fathom, you foolish _child_. I have seen empires vanish into rubble, kings and queens cast into the abyss. I have seen lovers with souls intwined so completely, seen them utterly _destroyed_ by heaven's fury."

"What would _you_ know of _love_," he spat, his eyes burning beyond the darkness, "Clarissa Morgenstern, when you have never sacrificed your very _being_ for the one you so adamantly believe to be your other half?"

Clary fought back a chill, and looked to the side, anywhere but at those unnatural, demon eyes. "What are you _saying_?"

"He makes all the sacrifices," he snapped. "He was willing to let his own people end his life just to stop your devil-sibling from taking over the world, and you know what you gave him in return?" Magnus asked, his cat-eyes narrowed in a hateful glare. "You _stabbed_ him, Clarissa, right through his _heart_."

Clary gasped, and took a step back, losing her balance. "It was the only way...Michael's sword–"

"_Michael's sword_," Magnus interrupted, cutting the girl off, "is _not_ what I'm referring to."

"I don't understand..."

The warlock closed his eyes. "You betrayed his trust. You betrayed the Clave, everything that Jace has devoted his very existence to."

"Magnus, they would have _killed_ him! I couldn't just stand by and let them–"

Magnus stepped out of the doorway, and Clary blanched as she saw that his features were sharper, his eyes full of a wild, ravenous flame that had not been there the last time she had seen him. "Jace Wayland would have ended his life as a mere shell because you were too selfish to let him end it on his own terms, and you would have gone on living your sorry little life, no doubt to love again."

"You would have learned to forget all about the poor, dead Shadowhunter you claim to love so much," he whispered, and looking up into that cold, inhuman gaze, Clary felt as if she truly could see entire cities destroyed and turned to dust, dying lovers burning in a sea of fire, and a strange, otherworldly pair of cerulean eyes boring straight through to her core–

She screwed her eyes shut tight, desperate to block out the hellish visions. "You shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."

"You know nothing of suffering, nothing of loss and heartache so deep and aching that death itself would be an empty relief from the agony gripping your very soul."

His voice broke, and suddenly he was more human than demon, more fragility than stone. "You cannot know love, Clarissa, until you have known sacrifice."

"No," she whispered, her voice catching. "I saved him, I brought him back..."

"At no expense to yourself." The warlock's eyes softened, and he asked, "What have _you_ sacrificed, Clary? What deep part of yourself have you given up for Jace?"

Clary froze, the snow falling around them suddenly feeling terribly warm compared to the ice slowly spreading through her veins. "I...I..."

But there was no answer she could give him. Nothing she could say that would tell him all that she had sacrificed for Jace, everything that she had given up to prove to him that she was every bit as worthy of his heart as he was of hers.

Because he was right.

She had seen sacrifice in the warlock's eyes for those few brief, fleeting seconds, sacrifice as she had never known in all her life.

They didn't say goodbyes, because there really was nothing left to say.

Magnus merely retreated back into his solitude, and Clary achingly turned around once more, wandering aimlessly through a cold, heartless city.

* * *

"_Are you positive that it's safe?"_

_The djinn, a beefy, blue-skinned monster with blinking eyes covering every inch of its hairless body, shot several disbelieving glances at Alec. "Safe? You're Nephilim, aren't you? Didn't think 'safety' was exactly in the job description."_

_Alec furrowed his brow. "Well I don't want to worry about having to potentially slay my neighbors, now, do I?"_

_The djinn let loose a deep, bellowing chuckle that the Shadowhunter couldn't entirely tell was genuine or not. "You've an attitude, I'll give you that. I like that." His two main eyes, located in the very center of his face, one on top of the other, narrowed slightly. "Can't say that my other tenants will appreciate it as much as I do, though."_

"_Well," Alec began, "if they don't, I suppose I could always introduce them to my dear friend, Amriel..."_

_At the boy's words, the seraph blade he had concealed within his coat lit up, showering the djinn and the Shadowhunter in a fierce blue light. The djinn laughed nervously, and this time Alec knew it was very real._

Alec thought back on the Undercity apartment complex, and wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

If Jace knew that his Parabatai was moving into a demon apartment complex called fucking _Brimstone Heights_, in the very center of one of the seediest parts of the Undercity...

Well, Alec knew that, if Jace were even conscious, his living quarters would be the least of their worries.

And besides, he thought, with any luck, he really wouldn't be living there all that long anyway.

Long enough to carry out the ceremony, and then he'd be out of there like a bat out of hell.

And then everything would be back to normal, just like the old days.

Or at least that's what he had to tell himself.

He slid Amriel out of its sheath and whispered its name, eagerly anticipating slicing the blade through Camille Belcourt's neck.

Alec made to slip past the unruly dogwood trees concealing the hatch to the City Hall Subway Station, when he stepped into a shallow pool of rainwater, and he looked down, his eyes meeting with his reflection.

He wasn't a boy anymore, not really. Softness had turned to hard angles and sharp lines, and his eyes weren't quite as bright as they had been, perhaps darkened with age and grief and bloodshed.

War was as much a part of him as breathing, so much that he felt as if he looked more natural in the dark, charcoal-grey gear he wore than the clothing of a human being.

_This is why you cannot be with Magnus Bane, _a soft, melodic voice whispered inside his head, like an intrusive snake. _He doesn't crave pain, doesn't know the yearning that all Nephilim feel for war and violence. _

Alec froze, feeling the familiar clutch of something dark on his heart, not unlike that of a demon, but more ethereal, intimate...

_Seductive_.

The voice grew deeper, harboring a soft, barely present note of darkness._ He does not understand your heart, Alec Lightwood, not as I do..._

Alec cringed, and stepped out of the puddle, embracing the darkness enveloping the subway station tunnel.

And just like that, whatever dark entity had had the Shadowhunter in its grip, its connection with Alec was severed, leaving only thoughts of Camille Belcourt's blood painting the subway station's deteriorating walls.

His leather boots echoed loudly throughout the cavernous tunnel, lit only by the soft, pale light from Amriel and his witchlight stone. It smelled even worse than it had before, the acrid stench of rot and rusted water now mixed with the salted tang of blood and gaudy French perfume wafting through his nostrils.

_Eau du sang_, he thought in a mock French accent, gritting his teeth in disgust.

The tunnel opened up into the old subway station, the witchlight scattering fragmented light throughout the station, and Alec felt chills shoot up his spine as the shards of light lightly danced over rusting walls and cracked floors, showing stains of blood and grime and Raziel knew what else.

Unseen pipes groaned in the distance, sounding like tortured souls doused in flame. The Shadowhunter shivered, and moved towards the subway station platform, when something caught his eye in the darkness as the witchlight passed over it.

Written upon the dirtied wall in a disgusting, nauseating rusted brown color, were the Latin words:

_Sequere stella matutina, puer Raziel._

The 'l' on the very end of 'Raziel' dragged down along the concrete wall, connecting with the rest of a bloody handprint.

Alec froze, his blood turning to ice. Was this some idiot Downworlder's idea of a joke?

"Such craftsmanship, don't you agree?"

Alec whipped around, and, standing no more than twenty feet ahead of him was Camille Belcourt, clothed in an exquisite, eighteenth-century ballgown, of French aristocrat design. Isabelle's ruby necklace hung from her neck, and Alec couldn't help but notice that her barely concealed chest was perfectly still, while a healthy mortal woman's would be steadily rising up and down with each intake of breath.

_She isn't natural, Alexander, _the mysterious, bizarre voice whispered, snaking its way back into Alec's conscious, like some horrible, horrible monster whispering into his ear in the darkness. _Do as your nature commands you to do...destroy her. Leave her within an inch of life, and then snatch that inch away before her very eyes..._

And, though Alec knew the voice could be nothing other than demonic in origin, he couldn't say that it wasn't exactly the kind of advice he had wanted to hear in that precise moment.

"Alexander," she said, her eyes warm and inviting, "I so hoped you would visit."

"I've come to kill you," he said, his expression that of chiseled stone, eyes set into an azure glare, and then he ran forward, swinging his arm in a crescent-moon motion, aiming for the vampire's neck.

She leapt backwards, hissing at the boy, and jumped onto the subway station platform, glaring down at the seething Shadowhunter with cold, cruel eyes. "What makes you think that you could even accomplish such a feat, Nephilim?"

"I killed _Maureen_, _didn't_ I?" Alec asked, gripping Amriel more tightly now, gauging the vampire's lithe movements upon the platform.

Camille smirked, and Alec wanted nothing more than to wipe that look off of her beautiful face with his seraph blade. "True, although I am significantly more powerful than a fledgeling, Alexander, even a fledgeling under Lilith."

"You're only as powerful as you are because of that wretched demon _bitch_," Alec snapped, gripping Amriel with such ferocity that he almost feared its handle might shatter.

Camille sighed, a gesture that grated on Alec to no end, and said, "You would do well to embrace her, Alec. Her Mark upon you, little Nephilim, would make you a–" She stopped short, looking as if she had choked on something.

"Can't say it, can you?" Alec quipped, grinning up at her. "Say it with me now, Camille," he said in a condescending voice, and, his grin growing even wider, said, his tone deviously antagonistic, "_God_."

The vampire's face momentarily distorted into an animalistic snarl, before she calmed herself, and, cocking her head to the side, said, "But if you kill me, Alexander, you will never know the truth."

He jumped onto the platform, his fingers curled around the witchlight stone. "Enough of your deceit! I'm through with your games–"

"If you kill me, Alexander," she whispered, almost pleadingly, "you will never know who Magnus Bane's father truly is."

Alec blanched, and then shook his head vigorously. "It's not important–"

"Even if it means the destruction of the one you love so dearly?" she asked, her lips drawn into a pout, glimmering eyes narrowed softly, almost tenderly.

Alec swallowed, faltering in his footsteps. His grip on Amriel loosened, just the slightest amount. "What...what do you mean?"

"What if your knowing his father's identity can help you save him? What if knowing can not only save your precious warlock, but everyone else you hold dear?" She held him captive with her gaze, the intense green of her sultry irises holding him rooted to the spot. He felt as if he could not breath, as if he were Perseus incased in stone, Medusa slowly advancing upon him.

She held her bare hand out, gently stroking his cheek with it; her touch was cold, almost unbearable. "Oh, Alexander," she whispered, and he wanted to retch at the tone of her voice, soft and loving, all a terrible falsehood, and they both knew it.

"If only Magnus let you in," she whispered, and he felt his eyes moisten, still held immobilized by her poison gaze, "if only he loved you enough to share with you his deepest, _innermost_ secrets."

Her lips turned up slightly at the corners, and she whispered into his ear, "I am the only soul he has ever told about his father." Her lips grazed his ear, and, horrified, he could not help but recall Hodge saying long ago that vampires toyed with their prey before the kill, pretending as if they were...

_As if they were lovers_, he remembered, the echo of Hodge's voice seeming like something out of a strange, long-forgotten time.

"I am the only soul Magnus Bane has ever loved." Her lips slowly slid from his ear to his neck, just above his collar bone. "All others have paled after my touch..."

Alec drew in a weak, shuddering breath. "You're wrong," he whispered, clinging onto the memory of Hodge's voice, thinking of life before Clary and Valentine, of a time when he and Jace had been inseparable.

He thought of Max, and stabbed the seraph blade into Camille's abdomen.

The vampire shrieked, pulling herself off of the blade, and hissed, propelling herself backwards through the doorway to the side of the platform, the one hidden underneath a glamour.

Alec raced after her, bolting up the stone stairway, darting into the dark, low-ceilinged room the vampire called home, the skylight above lightly showering the woman with burning moonlight.

Camille knelt upon the velvet divan, moaning in the darkness. She cried out, holding her left hand against the knife wound, ruby-tinted blood oozing from between her pale white fingers. "This pain," she whispered, doubling over, her face locked in an expression of quiet agony, "how...how can this...?"

"A gift from the Silent Brothers," Alec spat, recalling his earlier exchange with Brother Zachariah in the Institute infirmary.

_Alec pulled the witchlight stone from out of his pants pocket, and shifted his body, so that he sat up off of the hospital bed and stepped onto the wooden floor of the Institute._

Rest is essential to your health, Alexander Lightwood.

_Alec gasped, and turned around, only to find himself face-to-face with Brother Zachariah's hooded figure. The Shadowhunter swallowed, his throat painfully dry. "I'm going to kill Camille Belcourt, Brother Zachariah, and no one can stop me, not you and the rest of the Brotherhood, not my mother, not the Clave..." _

_Alec grimaced slightly, his back aching from where he had fallen upon the Sanctuary Room's hard floor. "I'll die trying to end her sorry existence, if I must."_

_Brother Zachariah said nothing to Alec's suicide wish, and merely pulled a small, crystalline vial from out of the many folds of his black, flowing robe. _This, _he said, his voice echoing softly throughout Alec's head, _is known as the Eye of the Wicked. It is meant to adorn a weapon being used against a hell-being, one much more powerful than Camille Belcourt.

_Brother Zachariah indicated to the dark amethyst liquid swilling about in the small vial, swirls of silver emphasized through the witchlight. _It is said to have been the tears shed by the Creator upon the fall of mankind.

_Alec took the vial into his hand, studying its contents with a scrutinizing eye. He adopted a crooked grin, and said, "Honestly, you don't believe that, do–" _

_But when he looked up, Brother Zachariah was gone, leaving Alec alone in the Institute infirmary, Jace and Isabelle lying comatose in the beds surrounding him. _

"The Eye of the Wicked," he said, his tone soft as he slowly advanced towards her. "Said to have been–"

Camille closed her eyes, a soft, keening whimper building in the base of her elegant throat. "The tears of..."

"Say it," Alec spat, gripping a fistful of the vampire's hair. "_Say it_."

Camille grinned up at him, and hissed, "_Les larmes de Dieu_."

Alec shot her a repulsed, hateful glare, and said, "Always the liar and the cheat," before slowly moving to hold Amriel against Camille's neck. "Tell me the name of Magnus Bane's father, Camille Belcourt," Alec whispered, his tone far less steady than the hand holding the seraph blade, "and I will make your death swift and painless."

The vampire let loose a laugh like the twinkle of starlight and sorrow. "Nephilim do not _know_ swift and painless death, Alexander." Her eyes narrowed softly, and she whispered, "You will make me suffer, as I have made you suffer. It is in both of our natures to be cruel."

Alec drew in a shallow breath, his eyes moistening. "You don't know anything about my people. We are nothing like your hell-spawn."

"Hell-spawn," Camille mused, her lips playing up into a soft half-smile. "You speak so darkly of the very thing that your precious warlock is," she whispered, her tone ringing of mirth and cruelty.

"_TELL ME WHO HIS FATHER IS!_" Alec demanded, his vision marred with hateful tears, his fist clutched so tightly around Camille's neck that, had she still been a mortal woman, he would have certainly crushed her windpipe.

She shot a wicked, gleeful look up at him, and delightedly spat, "_The Light-Bringer_."

Alec narrowed his eyes, allowing the vampire to slip out of his hold and fall onto the divan in a graceless crumple of rumpled fabric and pale gold curls. "_You lied_," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat as he stared down at the thin woman.

Camille's grin spread wider, almost as if threatening to split the skin on her pretty, perfect face. "You knew I was," she cooed, her tone almost motherly. "Deep inside your very core, Alexander lightwood, you knew. You just didn't want to believe that it was a lie."

Alec shot a pitying glance down at Camille, searing hot tears burning silver pathways down his cheeks as he turned his back on her, his footsteps echoing in the subway station as he slowly made his way back to the outside, his heart aching with a grief so deep that he wondered if death might not be so welcome after all.

* * *

Clary awoke to a rustling sound, like fabric moving through silence. She slid out from beneath her covers, and sat up, the blue comforter coming to pool around her waist, and shivered, her bare arms freezing as she hugged them to her body, the white camisole she wore suddenly feeling far too thin.

She looked up, and saw her black curtains billowing against the wind, frigid snow flying through the open window.

"Shit," she spat, and crawled along the bed, hopping off at the end, her naked feet screaming in protest as they met with the slick, snow-melted wooden floor of her bedroom.

She pulled the window shut, and bolted the latch, locking it in place. She sighed, and then froze, her face now the perfect picture of absolute, undeniable terror.

Dark eyes narrowed in the window's reflection, silvery hair shining in the moonlight.

Before Clary could even scream, his hand was covering her mouth, the other hand at her chest, pressing her hard against his body.

"Clarissa," he whispered, his mouth at her ear. She tried to bite his hand, but to no avail, and, grinning darkly at her through the window's glass reflection, his lips trailed down her neck, and he bit her lightly, where her neck ended to form her shoulder blade.

She protested, but it came out as nothing more than garbled nonsense.

"Now I'm going to remove my hand from your mouth," he said, his voice dark and guttural. "If you scream, I'm going to go downstairs and kill our mother in her sleep. Do I make myself clear?" When he got no response from her, he bit her shoulder blade once more, hard enough to draw blood this time.

She shuddered, but nodded nonetheless. "_Good girl_," he cooed, and slowly removed his hand from Clary's mouth. She tried to run to the door, but he reached out and caught her by her hair, yanking her back hard. He pushed her to the side, and she landed upon her bed, her head in a whirl.

She spun onto her back, just in time to kick him square in the chest. He grimaced, but caught her wrists and pinned her to the bed, forcing her legs apart and coming to rest between them. Her eyes widened to saucers and her lips parted in a perfect, horrified gasp.

He grinned down at her. "Relax, Clarissa," he whispered, his tone full of far too much joviality for the situation at hand. "I haven't come to hurt you."

"You hurt everything you _touch_," she spat, unsuccessfully trying to force her wrists from out of his grasp in a desperate plea for freedom.

His grin spread wider, making him seem more wolf than boy. "It's cute, you know," he said, practically smirking down at her. "You thinking that you're somehow stronger than I am."

As if compelled by some otherworldly force, Clary yanked her right wrist from out of his grasp, and slapped him hard across the face with all her strength. He gasped, more shocked than hurt, and then his face warped into a hateful, enraged snarl, and he flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her head back by a tight fistful of her hair.

She cried out, just soft enough to not be heard throughout the rest of Luke's house, and Sebastian gripped her neck, crushing. Her eyes widened, and she let out a quiet whimper that she knew would have made Jace feel ashamed of her had he been there to hear it, and when Sebastian released his grip on her neck, she inhaled deeply, coughing and spluttering.

"Now," he whispered into her ear, his hand still gripping her hair in a tight fist, his voice a low, menacing growl, "the more you fight me, the closer Jace finds himself to coming face-to-face with his maker."

Clary gasped, and forced her body to go limp, hating herself for it even as she knew that it was for Jace that she gave herself up to a monster. "Although I like it more when you struggle," he whispered into her ear, and Clary had to fight back a sob.

"Now I've come to you tonight with an offer, Clarissa." She felt his teeth graze her earlobe, and a spasm rippled throughout her body, forcing a deep chuckle from her brother. "A _gift_, if you will."

When his sister did not respond, he added, "What if told you, dearest sister, that there were a cure for Jace's condition?"

Clary gasped, and struggled against his hold once more, before he hardened his grip on her hair, forcing her to be stilled once again. "I have the cure for him, Clarissa, the heavenly property that will cancel out the demonic poison slowly burning him from the inside out."

"What do you say to _that_, Clarissa?"

There was a brief moment of silence, before Clary quietly whispered, "Anything."

"_Anything_?" Sebastian asked, his tone full of amusement. "What does 'anything' mean?"

Clary took in a shuddery, ragged breath, and said, her tone devoid of any emotion whatsoever, "It means that you can have anything you want, anything for the cure." She swallowed, and added, "Let him live...and I'll do whatever you want."

He pulled her up so that she was kneeling upon the bed with him, his eyes illuminated with a fierce, terrible triumph. "A life for a life, Clarissa." He reached into the pocket of his coat, and there, in the palm of his hand, was the cup that he had forced Amatis to drink from, glowing a stark white under the moonlight spilling in from the windowsill.

"Wh...what..." Her mouth fell into a horrified sphere. "Oh, no..."

Sebastian's wolf grin spread, making him look like a demon straight out of hell. "Drink from this cup, Clarissa, and I'll let him live."

"You have to cure him first," she said, her voice far steadier than she felt.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, but then his typical calm exterior was placed over the darkness, like some hellish mask. He reached into his coat pocket, and withdrew a small, velvet pouch. He held it out to Clary, and said, "Untie it, and he'll be back to his usual arrogant self in no time at all."

She motioned to reach for the bag, when he snatched his hand back, staring at her with level, steady eyes. "This is _very_ much a Faustian Bargain, Clarissa," he warned, dark eyes set into an unreadable gaze. "If you untie this pouch, there will be no going back for you."

"I promise," she spat, and reached for the bag again, though he pulled it back even further.

"It isn't good enough," he said, "your word."

Clary's green eyes blazed in the darkness. "A _Shadowhunter's_ word is _everything_."

"Like I said," he spat, "not good enough." Sebastian leaned forward on the bed, so close to her that she could smell his breath on her, like death and winter. "I want a blood oath from you."

"A blood oath?" she asked, her expression one of bewilderment. "What...I don't even..."

Before she could even finish that statement, Sebastian had reached into his coat and slid the same, wicked blade he had used to stab Jace at the wedding ceremony from out of his belt loop. He grabbed Clary's right hand and slid the tip of the blade across her palm, leaving behind a searing painful line of blood. He did the same to his own palm, and then intertwined their hands, blood running down their wrists and arms.

"Swear to me, Clarissa Adele Morgenstern," he whispered, his dark gaze so intense that Clary felt as if she would die looking into it for much longer. "Swear to me that you will devote your entire being to me, so long as Jace Wayland is cured of the demon poison."

Clary felt her blood go cold, and closed her eyes, a deep, aching grief swelling in her chest.

This wasn't right, was it? She thought of all the horrors her brother had planned for the world, for the Shadowhunters, for heaven...for her.

Surely Jace would understand, wouldn't he? Surely he would understand why she couldn't go through with this? Surely–

But then Magnus Bane's eyes enveloped her vision, his gold-green cat eyes staring straight into her soul, stabbing into everything that she was.

"_What have _you_ sacrificed, Clary? What deep part of yourself have you given up for Jace?"_

She took in a deep breath, and said, in a strong, clear voice, "I swear to you, Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. I swear that I will give you everything I have for Jace's life."

Sebastian grinned, and said, in a soft, soothing voice, "And I will _take_ everything that you have."

He untied the pouch, and a swirl of silver mist curled about them, before smashing into the window, glass shattering everywhere, the silver mist escaping out into the snow and cold. "It will find Jace," Sebastian said, quietly, "and it will heal him."

Sebastian held the cup between them, and whispered, "Now I will have your payment,_ darling sister_."

Holding back a sob, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, allowing her brother to pour the blackish, burning liquid down her throat.

* * *

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

**Ok, extremely long author's note ahead. Just a warning.**

**First things first:**

**PLEASE HELP ME WITH CLARY.**

**I find it so exceedingly difficult to write for her character.**

**I know the conversation between Magnus and Clary was very harsh (And perhaps slightly OOC for Magnus, but at this point, at least in this ****fic, I think Clary and Jace's relationship would just fill him with rage), but honestly, I think if Clary would actually realize this in the actual books, I would enjoy her character so much more. Jace has put himself in so much danger for her, and given up so much, while she hasn't really done anything, and has actually been quite selfish. I don't think you can really understand love until you understand that you must make sacrifices and give up your own happiness for the person you love. **

**I don't think Clary has done this, at least not yet.**

**I'm sorry about the incest, I really am. But I have no choice, because Clare left no room for me to wiggle around it. And if she's going to constantly pull the incest card (Which is getting old/also destroyed Sebastian's character development towards the end of CoLS), I'm going to make it as disturbing/tragic as humanly possible, rather than glorifying/simplifying it like she always seems to do in this series.**

**Now onto what you're all thinking about:**

**Magnus' daddy.**

**So if you've read 'A Question of Power', you're probably like, "YOU'RE WRONG, HAWTHORN GHOST. IT'S NOT LUCIFER!"**

**The problem is that Camille told Alec it wasn't Lucifer in a ridiculously joking manner.**

**"Camille pealed with laughter. "That Magnus's father is the Light-Bringer? The Morning Star? Certainly not!" (Taken from 'A Question of Power')**

**Yeah. _Real_ sincere, Camille. "The devil being your lover's daddy? Oh, you!"**

**Azazel is a top-ranking demon (I believe somewhere it's mentioned that's he's second-in-command, but I may be wrong) and fears Magnus' father.**

**Magnus is also terrified of Alec and the rest of the Shadowhunters discovering his origins. There are major hints heavily implying Lucifer, and the fact that she only had Camille deny it in a deleted scene that not everyone even knows about causes me to suspect yet another red herring.**

**Plus (And this is really the biggest indicator of Lucifer that there is), she admitted on her tumblr account that there's a hint towards who his father is in the break-up scene, which, now that I think about it, of course not many people picked up on, because we were all too busy crying/throwing the book at the wall/burning things in a rage.**

**I scoured through the scene (Though it hurt me so), and there is only ONE hint towards who his father is, and here it is:**

**Remember how Magnus manipulates the witchlight stone, and Alec says, "It shouldn't illuminate like that. For anyone but a Shadowhunter." And then he asks, "Is it because of your father?"**

**_Lucifer means 'Light Bearer.'_**

**He is literally the Light-Bringer, so if Magnus is his son, why _shouldn't_ he be able to manipulate the witchlight?**

**Which makes me think Camille is just another red herring, because literally every hint points to Lucifer, and we only have Camille to argue otherwise, and why WOULDN'T she lie to Alec?**

**In fact, I don't think any of the hints point to any demon _other_ than Lucifer, come to think of it. Literally the only thing keeping people from saying, "Figured it out, Cassi. It's Lucifer, DUH!" is ONE line in a three-page snippet that didn't even appear in every copy, spoken by a VERY untrustworthy character.**

**So I'm putting everything I have on Lucifer. If any of you think it's a different prince of hell, feel free to let me know in your review, and of course give detailed reasons as to why you believe it's that specific prince of hell. I'm in the mood for a great discussion!**

**Alright, the next chapter will be the conclusion to Part One, and...VERY, VERY, VERY bad things are about to happen, but you already knew that. ;)**


	7. Blood Traitor

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

**Well, this is the finale to Part One. It's long, but I hope you enjoy it.**

**Just a warning, this is the longest chapter so far, and is over twenty pages in my OpenOffice document.**

**I apologize ahead for the awful things and implications that occur in this chapter. I definitely made myself tear up in a few places, so hopefully the same happens to you!**

**(Jk. I don't really want to make you all cry. Except that I totally do)**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own TMI or TID, and I never will. I do, however, own this interpretation of Lucifer, but more on that down below.**

**WARNINGS: Language/MAJOR incest and sexual situations (Ohohoho we're going to dark, dark places!)/graphic violence/sadness and whatnot.**

* * *

_No, no, no._

_No, no, no._

_NO, NO, NO._

_Fire. Pure and uncontrollable, lacing its way through her veins. Clary didn't know where she began and this pain, this poison, ended. _

_But somewhere in the distance, she could hear a voice. Not just any voice, but _his_ voice. His voice was calmness and warmth personified, gently tangling itself into the cherry strands of her hair._

"You can close your eyes and think of England, if you like."

_She found herself holding onto him, latching herself onto that beautiful, golden voice, trying so desperately to keep from going under, to keep from losing herself in a sea of cruelty and ruin, wicked and terrible in its utter vastness._

_But there was a silver dust enveloping her senses, cold and sick and horrid, bleeding out over all the gold._

_Jace Jace Jace Jace Jace..._

_JACE JACE JACE..._

"Don't think of England, dear," _a sharp, ice-like voice whispered, cutting her off from the golden voice she cherished so much._ "Think of Prague, and Venice, dark, chilling streets curling into nothingness. Think of darkness and the sea, the Bone Chandelier. Think of Valentine Morgenstern's heart and Jocelyn Fairchild's blood, what links us so completely_."_

"Think of Lilith, and my touch. Think of demons unleashed, and fire all around us, your hair aflame as a halo, queen at my side_."_

"Think of _hellfire."_

_And the sea she was drifting in pulled her under, its current viscous and hateful. The golden voice faded off into nothing, and then her vision was silver and cold, darkness and ice._

_Sebastian Sebastian Sebastian..._

_SEBASTIAN._

* * *

Clary gasped, and took in a ragged, heaving breath, her chest feeling as if she had been drowning, her body full of seawater.

She opened her eyes, and her lips parted in surprise at the new shades of colors and light assaulting her eyes.

It was like seeing for the first time. She wondered if this was what a newborn felt, how they looked at the world through brand-new sight.

_The world had changed._

In those brief, terrifying moments of struggle, when she had been held under that awful, raging sea, the world had literally changed around her. She felt as if emerging from a storm, after so much chaos and bloodshed and fury, and now the world was only silence, only quiet, isolated darkness and slivers of pale moonlight and snow.

_And Sebastian._

Had his eyes always been so dark, so glossed with pain and heartache? His face wasn't nearly so angled as she remembered, so harsh. If she stared long enough, she could see the soft shape of her own face in his, the bridge of her mother's elegant nose.

Her mother's. His mother's.

_Their_ mother's.

"You're my brother," she whispered, her voice sounding so uncertain in the silence encasing them, so new.

His eyebrows slanted, briefly, as if it pained him to hear those words spoken through her lips. "Yes," he replied, his own voice soft and hesitant, mirroring hers.

She swallowed. "I'm your sister," she whispered, as if unable to understand the meaning behind the words.

She had said those words to him before, hadn't she? Where was the ferocity with which she had spoken them?

_Brothers and sisters...brothers and sisters..._

_Brothers and sisters don't...brothers and sisters don't..._

But no matter how hard she tried to comprehend, the meaning kept slipping away.

"You _are_ my sister, Clarissa. And I _am_ your brother." His eyes darkened, his silhouette backed by silver, snow still clinging to his angled figure.

Clary felt something nagging at the back of her mind, but couldn't quite latch onto it quickly enough, and then it was gone. "And...and you want me," she said, almost questioningly, as if she still didn't quite understand.

Her eyes narrowed, and her face screwed up into an expression of confusion. "_Sexually_. You want me...you want me _that_ way."

He placed his hand under her chin, his touch barely ghosting over her skin, and lowered himself so that he was lying on top of her. His lips, like ice and fire, brushed along her earlobe. "_Yes_," he whispered, and his voice was darker than she remembered it, so much longing and hurt hidden behind it.

He felt like winter and decay, she thought, and shadow and pain.

And she craved all that he was, yearned to be lost in that cold touch for eternity.

But this craving...there was something...

"And that's..._wrong_...isn't it?" she asked, and he propped himself up on his elbows, staring down at her with unreadable eyes.

He cocked his head to the side, and there was something about that gesture that reminded her of someone. "You used to think so," he said, almost bitterly. "But you don't think that any more, do you? You don't understand why you thought it was wrong in the first place."

"But...but I _did_ think it was wrong..."

His hands began drifting through her hair, soft and gentle. "Clary," he sighed, and she was surprised by how much she adored him saying _Clary_ and not _Clarissa_. "We share the same blood, the same heart." He laid his face against her chest, arms encircling her torso. "Our heartbeats synch, Clarissa. We are the same, made for one another."

She sat up, and he did the same, mirroring her movements exactly. She brought her right hand to his face, tracing his jawline, the one he had inherited from their father. She wound her fingers in his hair, unashamedly, marveling at its texture, like feathers and storm-clouds, spun from moonlight. She traced the shape of his lips, pointed, just like hers.

She stared into his eyes, jade into darkness. They were fathomless, defiance personified.

She remembered seeing the same defiance in her own eyes, not so long ago...

"What are you searching for, Clarissa?" he asked, his eyes narrowed softly in the darkness enveloping her bedroom. He grabbed her wrist, softly. "What are you grasping out for so desperately?"

She swallowed, and found herself leaning into him, pressing tight against his chest. She took in a ragged breath, her lips barely brushing against his. "_Hellfire_," she whispered, and then attacked.

Teeth found flesh, and she bit down onto his lower lip, and he gasped, soft and delicate, so delicate that for a moment, she wondered if she had hurt him. But then he was darkness embodied once again in a fragile human shell, perfect and destructive.

He pushed her back into the bed, his body melting into hers. His lips trailed down her neck, sometimes biting, while his hands slid beneath the hemline of her camisole. He slid a knife from his belt, and she was almost shocked at how relaxed she remained at the sight of it, knowing that she should be tensing from fear.

He slid the knife past the hemline too, and cut the tank top in half just above her abdomen, making Clary gasp. "Relax, Clarissa, I haven't come to hurt you," he said, grinning, repeating his words from earlier, and ripped the rest of the camisole apart.

Clary felt a blush heat her face, and her body burned at his touch. He ran a hand along the left cup of her striped bra, and grinned down at her. "A _front clasp_, Clarissa?" he asked, the grin spreading. "_Slut_," he whispered, almost playfully, and undid the clasp.

She swallowed, burning with something that she knew _should_ have been shame, but was far from it. He sighed, as if unwilling to believe this was anything other than a dream, and cupped her breasts, running his thumbs along the centers.

She moaned softly, her breathing quickened. "We belong to one another," he whispered, and pressed his thumbs against her erect nipples, and she gasped out, fingernails digging into his sides. She gazed up at him through half-lidded eyes, and parted her legs, willingly.

He smirked down at her, and whispered, "No."

"_No_?" she asked, the blush on her face warping into disbelief.

"I would love nothing more than to explore your body all night, Clarissa, but we aren't exactly in the clear yet."

She sat up, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. "It's _them_, isn't it?" she spat, her teeth bared. "The _Shadowhunters_."

Sebastian nodded. "They're just like you used to be, Clary. They would kill us for it, burn us into oblivion."

She balled her fist into his hair, staring up at him with defiant, angry eyes that matched his own. "Then we'll burn them first," she whispered, and the words were so hateful, so bitter, that she almost didn't believe she had spoken them at all.

Her brother's lips twisted into a wolfish grin, but for once, she didn't feel like a helpless, terrified lamb being thrown to the slaughter.

She was a wolf too now, equally ravenous, yearning for blood.

_Nephilim blood_.

* * *

"_Mreow_."

The warlock moaned, covering his face against the painful brightness of the kitchen lights. "Chairman Meow," he growled, groggily, "please do the drunken warlock a favor and _quit_ _speaking_."

"_Mreeeeeooooowwwww_."

The warlock sighed, slumping into a chair at the dining table, just as the teakettle began to whistle, shrill and hissing. Eliciting a pained groan from his lips, he snapped his fingers together, and the kettle lifted itself from off of the stove, steadily floating over towards where he sat.

He plucked a bag of China oolong tea from out of a silver tin, and carelessly dropped it into a small white mug with pink polka dots covering the lot of it, a gaudy gift from Isabelle from back when Alec had first moved in months ago. The kettle halted just where he sat, and poured steaming hot water into the cup, stopping just below the rim.

He gripped the mug's handle and sipped at its contents, the flavor of the tea like wood and earth, thick with warmth and spices.

It was enough to sober a man, he thought, which was just what he needed.

"_Mrrrreeeeooowww_..." The damn cat was growing increasingly needy lately, crying around the house wherever he could find the poor warlock.

It's like he could sense the..._wrongness_ of it all.

"You only miss him," Magnus said, sternly, "because he let you crawl all over his shoulders." He narrowed his eyes. "I dress a hell of a lot nicer than he does, so I'll be having none of that."

An unexpected chill groped its way along the warlock's spine, and a shower of cyan sparks erupted from his fingertips, uncontrollable and explosive. "_Magnus Bane_," a harsh whisper crept throughout the apartment, like a lover's sigh spoken in the darkness.

Magnus gasped, and dropped the mug of tea onto the table, spilling oolong all over the indigo tablecloth. Chairman Meow hissed and darted into the pantry, using the darkness as a makeshift security blanket of sorts.

The warlock stood up from the dining table, moving out into the living room, wobbling slightly. He peered out into the darkness, unable to stop the fireworks dripping from his fingertips. The living room was full of thick, hazy smoke, and he held back a grimace as cyan sparks illuminated a pair of glittering eyes, shining in the shadows enveloping the far side of the room

He cast a suspicious eye towards the mostly empty bottle of wine sitting on top of the low coffee table, which had the words _velours diable_ scrawled upon its label in elegant, flowery cursive, as if wondering just what _exactly_ had been in that bottle to make him see such things.

The voice chuckled, deep and more intoxicating than the richest of wine. "Well I can't argue with the wine; I _do_ taste like velvet." The voice, a melodic, lilting baritone, held a certain intimacy to it, harboring an old world accent, not unlike a soft English dialect.

Magnus swallowed, breathing heavily, his throat still burning of oolong and remorse. "Well, if it isn't _Old Scratch_ himself."

The eyes narrowed, crystalline slits, burning a fierce cerulean blue in the darkness. "You know, I never much cared for half of my..._titles_." He spoke the word almost lazily, as if the idea of having multiple titles _bored_ him.

"Well then, I suppose I could always find one more suited to your fancy," the warlock sighed, and held out his hand, using his fingers to count off lists and lists of names and titles. "Let's see, we've got the Morning Star, Prince of Darkness, Beelzebub, Mammon, Iblis, Diabolus, Der Leibhaftige–"

The voice let out a chuckle, deep and echoing throughout the lonely apartment. "You've neglected to recite my personal favorite: _sex incarnate_."

Magnus narrowed his vertical slit eyes, glaring into the darkness. "_Lucifer_."

The smoke began to coalesce with the shadows, until it was a being, though not entirely of human design. Its hair was fire, flowing and free, crackling as it moved, and even as the shadows began to lighten and morph into something resembling flesh, the pallor of the being's skin remained bone white, a stark contrast to the deep, shadowed angles making up its face.

It appeared to have taken an incorporeal form, the cyan sparks sizzling from the warlock's fingertips barely passing through its body made of shadow and smoke, adorned with ethereal colors and textures. Every few seconds the being would move, just the slightest amount, and its body would lose all solidity completely, shadows and smoke stretching out into the apartment, before snapping back into place, like brilliant sparks of darkness and tarnish.

The being did bear some resemblance to Magnus, in the way it held itself, its body language lithe and uncontrolled, a cat-like grace behind its every movement. But whereas Magnus was brightness, sunlight burning in a sea of empty, rotted blackness, this thing was coldness personified, darkness and hatred lingering just beyond the blue of that deep gaze.

It was bitterness and loss, heartache and agony.

It was so _very_ human, and for just a moment, Magnus wanted nothing more than to cry.

The eyes, however, dark and burning an otherworldly blue, were unfortunately far too cold for Magnus' tastes.

"So _this_ is what you look like," he said, in a casual tone that he was sure on some level his father found to be at the very least somewhat offensive.

Lucifer cocked his head to the side, his hair, wild, unruly curls made entirely of ravenous flame, continuing to crackle violently as he did so. "Don't seem so disappointed now," he spat, and Magnus made a mental note to remind himself just how vain the creature before him truly was.

"Forgive me, _daddy dearest_," Magnus drawled, "but I've gone my entire life having only heard your voice, and even then I was lucky to have heard from you every few centuries or so."

Lucifer made a 'tsk' sound, and Magnus hated how that one sound held the ability to get under his skin so completely. "You aren't going to chide me for not sending you Christmas cards, are you?"

"You haven't bothered dropping by since the 1700s," Magnus drawled, rolling his cat eyes, "and the first thing you said to me was a tacky sex joke."

Magnus could practically _hear_ the grin in the answering reply. "Where do you suppose you get your sense of otherworldly wit, high warlock of Brooklyn?" His voice held a hint of mockery to it, though it was more good-natured than biting.

"Honestly, _Old Scratch_," the warlock hissed, "if you've come for a nice little father/son chat, I'm not interested."

Lucifer's eyes narrowed. "You're not my _only_ child, you know." He sighed, flicking his wrist in what Magnus knew must be an attempt meant to mock him. "I've fathered countless offspring throughout the ages, warlock; for you to feel so _damn_ entitled to my attention–"

"I'm the only one who's tied to the Clave, however," Magnus retorted, a sly, triumphant feeling spreading throughout his body as he took in the demon's agitated expression.

Lucifer's eyes narrowed softly in the darkness, and Magnus hated how human they were; where was the justice in the warlock having the eyes of a demon, but the first of the fallen, the father of sin, having the eyes of a soft, normal human being?

The warlock signed, wearily. "Honestly, what are you doing here? You've never taken an interest _before_," Magnus snapped, and wondered if he sounded nearly as embittered as he felt.

There was a brief moment of silence, before the devil inquired, "What, no welcoming embrace? I was told by Abyzou that you were an _affectionate_ one."

Magnus ignored the mention of the Jewish demoness, who had made a terrible one-night stand about six centuries prior, on account of all the snake and fish scales. "Forgive me for not being in a terribly loving mood," he spat, and turned his back on his father.

"Not even for me?" a familiar voice spoke, and Magnus whirled around, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

No raging, dark demon stood before him, but instead, Alec Lightwood, adorned in nothing but the blue scarf Magnus had bought for him.

The warlock's eyes narrowed to slits, his fists aglow with a burning, sizzling cyan light. "How _dare_ you," he spat, sharpened nails slicing into his palms so deep that they bled.

Lucifer let loose a cacophonous eruption of laughter, before Alec's naked figure was engulfed in darkness and smoke, the devil taking his place once more. "In all seriousness, dear," he said, and Magnus hated such a cruel, awful thing addressing him with such a warm term of endearment, "I've come to inform you that this infatuation of yours with the Nephilim and the Clave is over with."

"I'm over eight-hundred years old, _father_. I'm afraid your opinions really don't matter, no matter your status in hell."

The devil's eyes narrowed to paper-thin slits, and he said, quietly, "You know perfectly well what your purpose here on earth is, Magnus Bane, and it certainly is not to prance about in sparkles and platform boots fucking Nephilim men all you please."

Magnus sucked in a breath, and glared across at Lucifer. "You have no right–"

"The End is nearing," the monster whispered, and his voice was like honey, floating throughout the living room and poisoning Magnus' senses with how lovely it sounded. "_Fast_ approaching, Magnus," he added, before slowly beginning to ghost nearer to where the warlock stood.

Magnus took a step back, the sparks fizzling and popping with more intensity the closer the devil approached him. "You have other children," he whispered, and he hated how insecure he sounded, how uncertain.

How terrified.

"None like you," Lucifer whispered, and reached out, his movements slow and dreamlike, Magnus too stunned to move away. His hand barely touched the warlock's chin, almost tenderly, a deeply soft touch, and the cyanotic fireflies bursting from Magnus' fingertips erupted into a shock of vibrant colors, red and violet, backed by royal blue hues.

Magnus stared down at his hands in bewilderment. "I thought there would be more time," he whispered, the colors of his cat eyes thrown off by the warped light of the sparks popping and crackling from his fingertips like multicolored lightning. "_Why me_?" he asked, his voice hardly even a whisper as he gazed up at his father with mourning eyes.

"We all have a part to play in this war," Lucifer said, and his eyes were full of so much anger and hatred, that Magnus feared he would shatter just from staring into them.

His eyes narrowed, and, his voice more darkness than honey now, said, "Sooner or later, you too, must accept this."

And then a sound like thunder exploded throughout the apartment complex, and his father was gone, the living room now devoid of shadow and smoke. The crimson and violet sparks at his fingers died down to nothing more than cyanotic butterflies too exhausted to escape from their glass confinements, before being doused into welcoming darkness.

Magnus fell to his knees, slumping forward.

He wasn't ready.

He wasn't ready for what was to come, and he knew that the world wasn't ready either, that the heavenly warriors he had come to care about so much would never be.

Alec and Jace and Isabelle. Clary and Simon. Jocelyn and Luke and every other Shadowhunter in existence.

They were all fighting a war that couldn't be fought, because Sebastian Morgenstern was just a puppet in the end, a child destroyed by heaven and hell's pointless, never-ending feud.

This war was just the prelude to the _real_ nightmare.

* * *

Sebastian crept along the hallway, his footsteps padded by the grey, itchy carpet found all throughout the werewolf's house, dagger in hand.

His breathing came in soft, barely audible breaths, his movement lithe and nimble, like a panther stalking its prey in the darkness.

He groped his hand along the wall, and his fingers curled around a doorknob, cold and metallic. He twisted it, and pushed the door open just the slightest amount. It creaked, albeit too quietly to cause someone to awaken, but he cringed nonetheless.

He slipped past the opening, and inhaled deeply, a torrent of awful scents assaulting his senses on all fronts. The room smelled of wet dog and laundry detergent, mingled with the burning, somewhat faded scent of angel and heaven, and he _hated_ it.

He slipped deeper into the room, until he was standing over Jocelyn Fairchild's body. She was curled inward, lying against the werewolf's side, her open hand lying against her husband's chest, which rose and fell to a steady, healthy rhythm. Strips of cold moonlight slipped in between the cracks in the folds of the curtains, falling against her face, and he hesitated, sucking in his breath.

She looked so content, so utterly at peace with the world around her. Her flaming hair framed her face, and for a moment, he was struck by her beauty, how much of his sister he could see in the way her lips pointed and curved, the soft, feminine shape of her face...

His lips twisted down into a hateful grimace.

She was the mother who had loathed him from the moment of his birth, the woman who would have drowned him in a river if she had been presented with the opportunity.

_She would have set fire to my crib if she had been given the chance._

Was it fair, he wondered, bitterly, for her to be so happy with the one she loved most, when she hadn't even shown a shred of the same affection to her own child?

How easy it would be, he thought, to cup his hand over that pretty little mouth of hers, and bring a pillow down upon her beautiful face, smothering the life right out of the awful, wretched thing...

But no. She would struggle and thrash and cry out in the darkness, and the werewolf would snap into action, allowing the beast to claw its way out and throw itself at the boy, making things so much more difficult for him than they needed to be.

No, Lucian Graymark was stronger than his mother, he knew that much.

Best to incapacitate him first.

He made his way to Luke's side of the bed, and glared down at his slumbering form.

Though Sebastian had his issues with his father, how Jocelyn had ever allowed herself to fall for this mangy _beast_ over a Shadowhunter as capable as Valentine Morgenstern was beyond him.

His father had been cold and cruel, yes, but he had also been capable of love and a gentleness Sebastian so often struggled to find within himself.

_You could have had everything,_ he thought, _yet you threw it away for an _animal.

His hand balled into a fist, and his eyes widened as he accidentally sliced the tip of his index finger against the blade's curved edge in the midst of his anger. He sucked in a breath, a sharp hiss in the silent bedroom.

Luke's eyes shot open wide, and he took in a gasp, like he had just been awoken from a terrible nightmare. His eyes found Sebastian's, and he froze, as if the sight of the boy in his bedroom was too terrible to be a reality.

The man's face transformed into a harsh snarl, and Sebastian's hand crashed down upon Luke's mouth, cutting his voice off. The werewolf struggled and thrashed about on the bed, and forced his elbow into the sleeping woman at his side, causing her to tumble off the side of the bed, onto the floor.

Seething, the boy brought the blade down upon the lycanthrope's neck, and sliced.

Luke's eyes widened, and he made a strange gurgling noise that delighted Sebastian to the bone, before he went limp.

His mother shot up from the floor, her eyes wide and frantic. "Luke, what's–"

Jocelyn froze as she took in the sight of her firstborn child standing over her husband in the darkness. "_Sebastian_," she whispered, and he absolutely adored the note of terror clinging to her voice, pure and clear and lovely.

Slowly her hand slid beneath her pillow, and when she withdrew it, Sebastian saw a gleam of silver against the moonlight.

"Sleeping with a kitchen knife under your pillow?" he asked, grinning across at Jocelyn. "Were you expecting a visit from your little boy, Mother?"

Her body tensed. "What are you–"

But then her eyes drifted from Sebastian's face, slowly falling to her husband's. She gasped, horrified and aching, and the sound of it was sweeter than anything Sebastian had ever heard in his entire life.

Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers trembling. He could practically feel the grief and agony racking her very being, and he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in all of that delicious heartbreak.

"Merry Christmas, Mother," he said, an angelic smile warping his lips, at odds with the hellish gleam in his dark eyes.

She threw herself at him, crashing into him as mother and son landed hard upon the floor. She struck the blade downward at his chest, and he caught her wrist just before the tip of the knife could connect with his skin.

"I did you a favor, Jocelyn," he spat. "Don't you know Downworlders make wretched lovers?"

Her jade eyes, the same ones that she shared with Clary, narrowed to cold slits in the darkness. "I hope you burn in hell," she hissed, struggling to force the blade to lower, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her wrist.

"Even hell doesn't want me," he spat back up at her in a dark tone, before slapping her hard across the cheek, knocking her to the side.

She rolled across the carpet, her hair a fan of flaming curls. He leapt to his feet and landed in a run, bolting across the room and out the door, pure adrenaline blazing through his veins.

He ran across the hallway, and he heard the door slam into the wall behind him, his mother's ragged, heaving breath in his ears as she pursued him.

"WHERE'S MY DAUGHTER, YOU MONSTER?"

Her voice was shrill and echoed sharply throughout the house, like lightning striking during a storm. He emerged from the hallway and into the living room, and when he turned around she was at his throat, and he caught her wrist once again, struggling to keep her from plunging the knife deep into his chest as he dropped his blade to the floor.

"Where is she?" she screamed, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. "Where is my daughter?"

A sickening crunch filled the room, and a spray of blood splattered across Sebastian's body. Jocelyn took in a weak, breathy gasp, her lips parted into a perfect, horrified O. Confused, he looked down, and his eyes widened in incredulity as he realized what had occurred.

A hand, with sharpened, elongated nails, had impaled its way through Jocelyn's abdomen, drenched in blood, droplets of the dark liquid dripping onto the grey carpet below. The hand ripped out of her stomach, and she crumpled to the floor at Sebastian's feet, twitching and convulsing, her throat making a choking sound, as if she were trying to speak but could not.

Sebastian shot his eyes up from Jocelyn's incapacitated body, and up at his sister. She was covered in blood now, her arm painted with Jocelyn's insides, and her eyes gleamed with delight in the darkness, like wonderful hellfire.

And he had never wanted to kiss her more.

"Sorry, mommy," she whispered, before bringing her bloodied fingers to the awful grin twisting her lips, tongue darting out to taste the vibrant flavor of their mother's blood, and her brother had never seen her so striking, so exquisite as she was now.

Jocelyn's eyes glittered with tears, filled to the brim with revulsion and heartache, and Sebastian picked the curved blade from up off of the floor, kneeling over his mother's crippled body.

"Blessed is the womb that bore you, and the breasts at which you nursed," he hissed in an ironic tone, and aimed a scathing glare at the woman he could never love in all his life. "That wretched sorceress bitch you used to live next door to, she warned you that your child would be the death of you, didn't she?"

He shot a wicked grin up at Clary, before turning his dark gaze back to Jocelyn's wide, frantic eyes. "I'd wager that, with me in the picture again, you never thought it was your precious little daughter she was referring to, did you?"

He laughed, and the sound of it was shrill and bitter. "Say hello to Valentine for us, Jocelyn," he spat, and brought the blade down with an iron fist that matched the cold fire alight in his dark eyes.

* * *

Jace shot up in the darkness, gasping and panting.

"CLARY!"

A hand was immediately at his chest, and he looked up with wide, panicked eyes, only to find Isabelle's dark gaze staring down at him. "By the Angel," she whispered, her voice breaking, "Jace...Jace, are you...are you ok?"

"Clary," he whispered, his breath shallow and labored, "Isabelle, we have to find Clary."

Isabelle's eyes narrowed softly, and she said, "Jace, just last night you were...I mean...they said you only had a few nights left." Even with the moonlight spilling in from the windowsill the only relief against the darkness in the room, Jace could still see the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Izzy. Izzy crying.

What hellish nightmare had he been cast into?

"What...what are you talking about?" He pushed her hand off of his shoulder and hopped off of the bed, before crumpling to the wooden floor.

Isabelle knelt at his side, hand at his shoulder in a flash. "Jace, you've been comatose for the last week. Don't you remember...remember anything?"

"I...I remember _Sebastian_," he spit, his eyes golden slits in the moonlight. "He stabbed me, but everything was fine after that. And then Clary and I went hunting for a demon in Brooklyn, and–"

He gasped, and Isabelle jumped at the sound of it. "_Clary_," he cried out, frantically grasping onto Isabelle's hands like a mad man. "Where is she? Did she make it out ok? If anything happened to her–"

"Jace, relax," she whispered, cupping his face in her hands, her voice soothing and warm. "She's safe, she drew a rune to draw me and Alec to the fight. She barely even needed a stele."

He sucked in a breath, and slumped forward, his forehead resting against her chest. She ran her hand along his back, rocking him back and forth, and for a moment, Jace remembered how they had been before all of this, back when Hodge had basically been their mother and father.

Isabelle had been his sister for the last seven years, and although Alec was his brother too, he had always held a certain affinity for the dark-haired girl embracing him in the darkness. War lived in both of their veins, and when he hadn't been able to say what had been troubling him to his Parabatai, she had always been there to comfort and to listen.

He didn't even know if he had ever even told her how much she meant to him, how she was the only sister he had, the only one he even wanted.

"Izzy, I–"

She put her index finger to his lips, silencing him. "It's ok, Jace. I understand."

She stood up, and helped him to his feet. "Come on," she said. "We'll go and see Clary."

He smiled down at her.

Sometimes she was the only person who understood.

* * *

Isabelle couldn't exactly say that she was happy to trek through the streets of New York at four in the morning, but then again, Jace hadn't exactly been born with good timing.

But she loved seeing him happy, and the only thing that ever seemed to make him happy anymore was when he was with Clary.

Sometimes it left her with a sick, aching feeling in her stomach, knowing that she would never be enough, that she and Alec would always play second fiddle to some girl who had only crashed into their lives a few months ago.

But she made him happy, and that was what mattered in the end.

"What're you thinking about?" Jace asked, interrupting her reverie.

Isabelle sighed, pulling the rouge scarf around her neck tighter, hugging her arms to her body as they continued to walk forward. "Just...about stuff."

Jace scoffed. "Stuff?"

"Well," she said, slightly hesitantly, "I was thinking about life before Clary, to be honest."

Jace's face warped into a grimace, and Isabelle wanted to cry. He made it seem as if nothing in his life had been worth living for before Clary had come into it, not even his own family. "The Dark Ages, as I prefer to refer to it."

Isabelle glanced up, and saw Luke's house approaching in the distance. "_The Dark Ages_?" she asked, shooting an incredulous look his way.

"It was a _joke_, Isabelle," he quipped, grinning. "Lighten up, would you?"

Her eyes darkened as they pressed on, nearing the werewolf's house. "Do we really mean so little to you?" she asked, her voice sharp and embittered.

They made their way up the front porch steps, and Jace turned to cast a bewildered look at the Shadowhunter girl at his side. "Isabelle, how could you _possibly_ think–"

He didn't get to finish that statement, however, because a loud crashing sound erupted from within the house.

Jace kicked the door in, breaking it off of its hinges, before barging his way through the doorway, Isabelle rushing after him, seraph blades in hand.

They ran into the living room, and Jace halted in his tracks, Isabelle slamming into his back. "Christ, Jace, what the fu–"

"_C...Clary_?"

Jace's voice was like a child's after finding out a loved once has passed on, quiet and lonely, isolated in confusion and disbelief.

Isabelle moved from behind Jace, and gasped, covering her mouth in horror.

Sebastian Morgenstern crouched over Jocelyn's convulsing body, holding the same blade over her that he had used to stab Jace with at the wedding ceremony two weeks ago. Jocelyn was trembling uncontrollably, her eyes wide and staring, pointed lips quivering. In the center of her toned abdomen was a ragged, gushing hole, oozing blood and gore, a pool of blood quickly spreading beneath her.

_She had been impaled._

To the side of Sebastian and Jocelyn, was Clary, standing near the entrance to the kitchen, her right arm covered in blood, ichor showering her torso and blood marring her freckled face.

"_Clary_!" Isabelle cried, and began to dart over to the girl, before Jace held his arm out in front of her, blocking her pathway. "Jace, what are–"

He swallowed, his face an amalgamation of agony and fury. "Look at her eyes," he said, his voice catching slightly.

Isabelle shot Jace an incredulous, bewildered look, before slowly turning her gaze back to Clary.

Her pink camisole, the one Isabelle had given to her for her birthday, was splattered with blood. Blood dripped from her teeth and lips, and Isabelle had thought at first that her brother had hit her. Her arm was dripping with blood and ichor, and...

Her nails were sharp, _too sharp_, like a wolf's.

And Jocelyn had been impaled...by something _sharp_...

Clary's lips split into a cold smile, cruel and thoroughly unfamiliar.

And then it hit Isabelle, like coming up for air after being entirely submerged in cold water, desperate for that first breath of fresh air.

_Clary was gone._

"Oh, Clary, _no_," she whispered, her voice breaking even as Clary's grin spread across her face like a wildfire.

"_Oh, Isabelle, yes_," Clary spat back, her voice mocking and cruel.

Jace leapt at Sebastian, knocking the blade from his hand, causing it to skid across the floor. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?" he demanded, his fingers curling around the older boy's neck.

The fair-haired boy knocked the seraph blade from out of Jace's hand and gripped onto the collar of his coat. "Only what she _asked_ me to do, _Nephilim_," Sebastian hissed, and landed a punch square across Jace's face, knocking him backwards. He kicked out at Jace's leg, and Isabelle heard a sickening popping sound as Jace cried out, falling to the floor.

Isabelle flicked her whip at Sebastian, slicing him across his neck. He shot a scathing glare at her, before rushing at her, shooting his elbow into her chest with all his might. She felt something snap, like a dead leaf beneath her boot during an autumn evening. Her breath left her, and she crumpled to the floor, legs giving out beneath her.

She took in a ragged breath, and cried out as a sharp, searing pain tore its way through her chest. She tried to get back to her feet, but the pain only sharpened, like a fire building in her ribcage.

"Jace," she groaned, desperate to hear his voice, anything but this awful silence. She heard him cry out in agony, and she craned her neck, only to see that Sebastian had moved to the wall, his back resting against it as he surveyed the scene before him with a quiet look of amusement in his dark eyes.

_Clary_, the bright, bubbly girl who had barely even begun her training as a Shadowhunter, had pinned _Jace_ to the floor beneath her boot, her face contorted into one of terrifying fury.

"Clary, _don't_," Isabelle moaned, and the redhead shot a vehement glare at the immobile girl, her eyes jade daggers.

"Shut the fuck up, you little _bitch_." Isabelle's eyes widened, and she took in a horrified gasp that sent shards of pain boring into her chest.

Clary turned her gaze back to Jace, who was struggling to push her off of his chest. "Touch my brother again and you _die_," she spat, before kicking her heel into his chest and rushing over toward where Sebastian stood, his palm placed firmly against the wall. Sebastian smiled down at her, and Isabelle recognized the sparkle in his half-lidded, dark eyes as he gazed down at his sister.

_Lust_.

By the Angel, he wanted his own sister.

"_Clary_!" she cried out, panicked tears blurring her vision as she reached out for the girl who had practically become like a sibling to her in the past few months, her voice dripping with desperation and heartache. "_Clary, get away from him!_"

The corners of Sebastian's pointed lips quirked upward, and he tucked a strand of red hair behind Clary's ear. "You can stay with them if you'd like, Clarissa. It's your choice."

Clary smiled up at him in return, her eyes glittering with mirth and...

And love, Isabelle realized, horrified.

_Actual love_.

She reached up to cup his cheeks, and pulled him down into a kiss. It started off soft, almost sensitive, before she deepened it, ravenous and craving, primal and dark. She bit his lower lip, and a thin line of blood ran down his cheek.

Before Isabelle could blink, Jace had pushed himself off of the ground, limping over toward where brother and sister were embracing. "_Clary_," he gasped, choking and panting, his voice dripping with pain. "_Clary, don't go_," he whispered, and Isabelle bit her lip, choking back a sob at the desperate agony laced in his deep voice.

Sebastian shot a spiteful look at Jace, grabbed onto Clary's waist, and took her face in his hands. Soon they weren't Sebastian and Clary, but a unified being, tied together, their lips crashing onto one another's with such ferocity that Isabelle almost feared they would combust.

Jace cried out for her, and leapt at them, reaching out for the redheaded Shadowhunter. But Sebastian had tightened their embrace, deepening their kiss. Shadows and smoke engulfed their entangled bodies, and a portal burned through the wall. Jace's hand wound in her hair, and she screamed.

But no sooner had she cried out, the siblings had disappeared into the hole, before the wall had returned to its normal, solid state. Jace slowly slid to his knees, his palm resting against the wall, trembling.

"_Jace_," a quiet, broken voice gasped, and Isabelle turned her eyes to the side, focusing on Jocelyn, who was crying, her body shaking violently.

Jace turned and limped over toward the woman, before dropping to his knees, weakened and gasping. He took her hand in his, tears streaming down his face.

A sob racked Isabelle's shoulder as she tried to fight her way to her feet, but fell back to the ground in agony, her chest burning with pain. She slowly pulled herself along the floor, fingers tearing into the grey, bloodstained carpet. When she was within a few feet of Jocelyn, Jace pulled her up by her shoulders, allowing her to lean against his body.

"Jocelyn," she whispered, her eyes stinging. "_I'm so sorry_." She took in a ragged breath, and shuddered. She couldn't make herself tell the woman that everything was going to be ok, because it wasn't going to be, not ever.

Jace gripped her hand tighter. "Jocelyn, where's Luke?" he asked, though Isabelle knew the answer before it came.

Jocelyn's eyes, wide and glistening, moistened with fresh tears, and her face contorted into an agonized, heartbroken expression, and she let out a sob that tore through Isabelle's very being.

Isabelle took the woman's other hand into her own, sobs flowing freely from her body now. "_Luke_," she whispered, and she couldn't help but think of his soft blue eyes, how kind he had always been to them, even though they were the children of two Shadowhunters, two old friends who had abandoned him along with Valentine Morgenstern, his closest friend, his _Parabatai_.

Luke had been the one who had shown her that werewolves were not to be feared, that Downworlders could be friends instead of enemies.

And now he was gone.

Just like Jocelyn would soon be too.

And now this horrible night would forever be etched into her memory, a nightmare that could never properly be woken from, its image haunting her for the rest of her life.

Luke, dead and gone, his eyes forever clouded over; Clary, with her eyes that of a demon's, covered in her own mother's blood, embracing a monster born out of the darkness; Jocelyn, bleeding out all over her and Jace's hands, convulsing and trembling, blood spurting from her mouth.

"Jocelyn, please–" Jace whispered, and Isabelle knew he was trying not to cry, to remain strong and stone-faced for both of the Shadowhunter women.

Jocelyn choked, and blood welled up inside of her mouth. "_Jace_," she interjected, her voice rasped and raw, "save her, _please_..."

"_Save her_."

Her body went limp, and an awful, broken sob tore its way past Isabelle's lips, her vision distorting completely as a thick curtain of tears built up in her dark irises.

Jace sniffed, and gripped onto the woman's hand tighter. "_Jocelyn_," he cried out, "Please, please...Christ, Jocelyn, _don't die_..."

Isabelle brought her hand to Jace's shoulder, her breathing shallow and pained. "She's gone, Jace," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

"He took her," he whispered, his voice breaking as he spoke. "He took her."

He looked up at Isabelle with horrified, moist eyes. "He made her kill her mother, Isabelle..."

He broke into tears, and Isabelle took him into her arms, her own body racked with sobs as well; each sob sent a wave of agony burning through her chest, a constant, aching reminder that their lives were made of pain, made of heartbreak as terrible and agonizing as this awful, awful night. "We'll find them, Jace. We'll find them and we'll get her back, and we'll make that monster _pay_ for what he's done."

Jace looked to the side, trembling. "_Jocelyn_..." he whispered, his voice a shudder against her body. Isabelle swallowed, and pulled Jace tighter against her, as if to stop him from vanishing too.

She saw the faces of Luke and Jocelyn, so happy with each other, now cold and dead and gone.

She saw Clary's soft, freckled face with her strange, terrible, demon eyes, now as good as dead.

She saw Max's face, his boyish, bright eyes smiling up at her, too young to have been cast into a war that hadn't been his fault.

She fought back a sob, and buried her face in her brother's chest.

How many more faces would follow suit?

She looked down, and, through the wall of tears, a flash of red caught the corner of her eye.

In the fist that Jace held against his chest was a lock of Clary's hair, vibrant and burning against the sickly pallor of his skin.

She placed her hand over his, fingers trembling, covering the sight of the girl's hair from her eyes.

* * *

The moon was a crescent slit in the nighttime sky, like a cheshire grin leering down at the miserable, sodden Shadowhunter as he wandered through cold, snow-covered streets and alleyways, the gear he wore a burdening armor from the wind and snow.

Alec didn't see the faces of the strangers he passed, shielding himself from their prying eyes with a glamour.

He couldn't even say how much time had passed since his encounter with the vampire Camille.

The boy wandered into a shadow-painted alleyway, the darkness like a welcoming blanket, relief from the mindless, unaware mundanes crowding the city streets.

He took another step into the alley, and his boot came down on something slick and wet that squelched beneath his step, followed by a sickening crunch. He glanced down, and saw the mangled, bloodied corpse of a cat, its head barely hanging on by a thread.

A small cat. A small, grey little tabby cat with glossy, turquoise eyes...

Alec gasped and flung himself to the opposite wall, fingernails digging frantically into the mortar between the bricks making up the alleyway, chest heaving.

He sighed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, accelerated heartbeat slowing.

It wasn't Chairman Meow, thank Raziel. It was much too thick around the midsection, and the warlock would have never allowed the cat to wander this far into the city, all alone and cold, defenseless.

He sunk down the wall, smiling bitterly to himself as he hugged his knees to his chest. Even the man's goddamn _cat_ had his heart in a vice-like grip.

He wondered where Magnus was at this very moment, on this very night. Was he lonely and cold, too, just like he was? Did he miss him? Was his heart gaping and broken, full of glass and ice?

He looked up and saw the sky, full of so many glistening pinpoints of light, and wondered how that was, how he could see the stars in the city through all the smog and pollution.

It was like there had been a shift, like the universe was unraveling, falling apart at the seams, like the sky was burning to tear itself from the void and come crashing down on an unsuspecting city.

_Are you showing me the stars to punish me? _Alec wondered, and then found himself wondering who was even responsible for lighting the stars each night.

Was it the sorrowful prince of hell himself, he wondered, desperate to remain suspended in the sky above humanity, shining with a maddened, mournful light, knowing that he would eventually be blotted out by the sun time and time again?

Their shining, soft light was familiar, so familiar that it hurt him to look up, to keep his gaze locked onto each tiny pinprick of brilliance, because each star was Magnus, burning on and on and on, each star a million terrible, terrible secrets.

He brought the witchlight stone from out of a pouch connected to his belt, and his eyes burned as it slowly began to shine with a faint, ethereal glimmer, lighting the palms of his hands and casting the angles of his pale face in shadow and silver.

"The Morning Star," he whispered, his throat dry and his voice distant, a hollow light in his eyes.

_Lucifer_.

He closed his eyes, and let out an awful, guilt-ridden sob, clutching the witchlight tightly to his chest, desperate for its light, for its security even as his heart was breaking.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered to the stars, as if each facet of Magnus could be seen in the black, nighttime sky, staring mournfully down at the frightened Shadowhunter.

If only he had listened to the warlock, had kept out of his past. If he hadn't pried so much, prodded at all the mysteries constantly burning at the back of his mind...

Alec wished more than anything that he could turn back time, erase Lucifer's name from his memories, erase Camille, erase every stupid, thoughtless thing he had done in the past few weeks.

But there was no going back, not now.

Only death and ruin lay ahead.

Because when the Clave found out, there would be only one solution, one possible course of action to take.

Magnus Bane would be put to death.

* * *

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE:_  
**

**Initially I cringed throughout writing that entire first scene between Clary and Sebastian, but now I've desensitized myself to the incest.**

**Is that a good thing or a bad thing? We'll see.**

**So anyway, I had a hard time writing this chapter because I didn't know how to write Lucifer for this series. **

**So this is my personal take on Lucifer, a character that pops up from time to time in my original work, sort of a character that links certain things together every once and a while. With NaNoWriMo approaching, I really didn't have the time to come up with a separate characterization for Lucifer for this fic, so I am sorry for that. Thankfully, my Lucifer blends into this style decently, I think.**

**I'm sorry about the darkness of this chapter. Sometimes I feel that it's becoming _too_ dark, but then I think that the original series isn't really dark _enough_. I don't know, it's hard for me to find a balance.**

**Also, tons of foreshadowing in this chapter. Like, REALLY obvious foreshadowing.**

**Anyways, hope you enjoy the conclusion to Part One, and as I mentioned a few chapters ago, I'll be participating in NaNoWriMo next month, so the next chapter won't be uploaded until the end of December.**

**(If any of you are doing NaNoWriMo too, you should totally be my writing buddies; my username is the same one I use here)**

**Wish me luck, and have a nice November!**


	8. The Inquisition

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

**...Long time no see?**

**...**

**I'm sorry.**

**:(**

**Friends?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own this series. If I did, then maybe I wouldn't be a barista. **

**Warning: The end of this chapter made me cry while writing it. Sorry. :( Not really violent or anything, but just...you'll see.**

* * *

**PART TWO:**

**HELL-BOUND**

_So he fell asleep with a troubled brain_

_To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train._

_The engine with murderous blood was damp_

_And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp;_

_An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones,_

_While the furnace rang with a thousand groans._

_— Hell-Bound Train; Author Anonymous _

* * *

Jia Penhallow looked sharp and impassive, the flowing, shimmering robe of the Consul molding to the soft contours of her body, yet also seeming to be made of liquid, strong and impossible to tame.

In a way, Alec thought it suited her.

They had been called to gather deep in the heart of the City of Bones, the members of the Silent Brothers lining the walls. Nephilim from all over the world had been called to the city, hundreds of bodies filling the enormous cavern, all standing together in a crowd of bodies, crammed together, torches of glimmering witchlight scattering flickering shadows along the stone walls.

"Brothers, sisters," Jia spoke, her clear voice echoing throughout the chamber, "Jonathan Morgenstern grows stronger every day. His alliance with the demoness Lilith has spread to not only the Night Children and the Fair Folk, but to members of our own as well."

Her eyes shone, and Alec wondered if she were crying, trying to prepare herself for what needed to be said. Then again, he thought, he didn't think the Consul was a position where one could safely allow oneself to cry in front of others.

"Exactly one week ago tonight, Jonathan Morgenstern broke into the home of Lucian Graymark and Jocelyn Fairchild, and slaughtered them as they slept."

Cries rang out, shouted words and hateful demands for the boy's head, for his heart to be ripped from his chest. Isabelle tensed next to him, and Alec entwined his fingers with hers, pulling her closer.

He wanted so desperately to tell her that everything would be fine, that they would find Clary and heal her, that Sebastian would be dead in the morning.

But he was no liar.

Voices, disjointed and unfamiliar, broke throughout the cavern, reverberating off of the stone surrounding them.

_"And what of the Morgenstern girl? Where is she?"_

_ "Has she drunk from the cup?"_

_ "Is she dead too?"_

Jace stared straight ahead, expression set into one of stone and determination. Alec looked down at him, eyes set into a worried gaze.

The last week had been one of silence, silence and broken sobs in the night. Sobs that hadn't come from Alec or his sister, or their mother. Sobs that rang of anguish, hatred and desperation.

When Jace sobbed, Alec thought, darkly, it was true that the world was ending.

"The boy has taken Clarissa Morgenstern against her will, and–"

However, before Jia could continue, a voice, deep and rumbling, rang out from the side. "Really now, Consul, it is hardly surprising that Clarissa Morgenstern is at the heart of this issue."

A tall, robed figure strode through the crowd, and sauntered its way up the steps to the platform where Jia stood overlooking the gathering Nephilim, broad shoulders and dark hair burning into Alec's vision.

Jace's entire body went rigid from where he stood next to his Parabatai, and Alec heard the awful, heartwrenching gasp from his mother, who was standing next to Jace.

"_Robert_," Maryse whispered next to him, her voice nothing more than a broken whisper.

"But I thought he was coming back from Idris," Isabelle gasped, her voice catching slightly in her throat. "_I thought he was coming home._" Her hands balled up into fists at her sides, and she looked off to the side, lips curled back into a hateful snarl.

Shooting his mother a bewildered look, Alec leaned over Jace and whispered, "Did you know about this?"

Maryse swallowed, shoulders rigid, her body that of stone, cold and still. "_No_," she said, quietly, the tone of her voice sharp and biting.

"The Morgensterns are cursed," Robert said, his voice ringing throughout the cavern. "Evil follows them like a plague. What's to say _she's_ not just as evil as _he_ is?"

"Who's to say she didn't go with him on her _own?_"

Voices cut into Alec's ears, questioning Clary's intentions, questioning his father, questioning the angels themselves.

"You can't _possibly_ mean what you say," Jia said, her expression one of incredulity.

Robert arched a brow. "Whenever evil is brought into our ranks, it seems that the actions of Clarissa Morgenstern are always the true root of the cause." Upon Jia's stunned silence, he continued, "Had the Morgenstern girl not played God with Jace's life during the Mortal Wars, Valentine's son and the demon Lilith would not have such power over us."

Alec waited for someone to disagree, to stand up and shout at his father for how wrong he was to question Clary's integrity, but no one did.

Numbly, he realized that the two people who would have stood up to him, who would have defended her with everything they had, were gone.

Isabelle pulled her arms around herself tighter, and shivered; clearly, Alec thought, she had just arrived at the same heartbreaking realization.

"What _exactly_ do you propose, Robert?" Jia asked, though her tone was now bordering more on snappish than the usual collected tone natural to the Consul.

Robert's lips split into a wolfish grin, making him seem more demon than man. "Why, an _inquisition_, of course."

Maryse bit down onto her lower lip, fists shaking at her sides. "He promised me," she whispered, trembling with anger. "He promised _us_ he would return from Idris to his _family_, where he was _needed_."

"He lied."

Alec turned to face Jace, shooting him an alarmed look. He wanted nothing more to slap his Parabatai for being so damn insensitive, for not knowing better than to make stupid, snide remarks, to know that–

Except that Jace wasn't being insensitive at all.

There was something about the glint in his father's eyes as he surveyed the crowd, as he spoke out to them with his booming baritone voice, that told Alec everything he needed to know.

He wore the robe of the Inquisitor like a second skin, as if he had shed his role as the head of the New York Institute overnight, like a snake.

_He had never planned to come back at all._

Jia rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Now is not the time for an inquisition, Robert. We are in the City of Bones, at a _gathering_, for Raziel's sake."

"And what if the nature of this inquisition would shed light onto our rather bleak situation? Lilith grows stronger with her son's plans every day, and we have here in our midst two Shadowhunters who witnessed the events that occurred that night."

"Why have they not _already_ been properly questioned, Consul?" Robert added, his eyes narrowed to cerulean slits. "Perhaps we are hiding something from the Clave?"

Jia's eyes narrowed, her expression one of incredulity. "How _dare_ you question my integrity, Lightwood? If I thought for even _one_ second that someone in our ranks was hiding information about the Morgensterns, I–"

"Would do the sensible thing and allow them to be interrogated, yes?" Robert finished for her, and Alec grimaced; she had allowed him to guide her to this point, to trick her into letting him interrogate Jace and Isabelle.

She would be seen as unfit as Consul now, surely. Easily manipulated, easily fooled.

_No one wants a fool for a Consul,_ Alec thought, grimacing.

But when had his father become so deceitful? When had he started to take such delight in tricking others, in petty insinuations toward loved ones?

Robert had never been manipulative, never a liar. He was a good, honest man, Alec thought, a good father, despite his flaws.

_When did he become so cold?_

"Robert," Jia began, carefully, "I repeat, now is _not_ the time for an interrogation."

Robert pursed his lips. "Never will there be a better time, Consul. This is no longer a matter for only my family and the Morgensterns. It concerns every Nephilim around the world, every Downworlder, every rotten demon lurking in dark alleyways at night."

He turned to face the crowd, and Alec wondered why it was that the witchlight barely even seemed to touch him. "Friends, this is a war for the angels now, a war for heaven and hell, not for the Lightwoods, not for the Morgensterns."

"Not for the Herondales," he added, darkly, his eyes locked onto Jace's.

Alec moved closer to Jace, breathing hard. "What's going on?" he whispered into Jace's ear, dread lacing its way through his veins.

But Jace didn't respond. He could only stare straight ahead, eyes locked onto Robert's, fire-gold on cold cerulean. His body tensed, and his fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, shaking.

Alec had never seen his Parabatai like this. So angry, so repressed, so...

_So terrified._

"Gone are the days when the Clave concerned itself with trivial things such as privacy and politics," Robert continued, his voice burning into Alec's ears. There was something so...captivating about that voice, an addictive quality that he had never noticed before now.

"We are a dying breed, a purity being bled out by all the rot in this world. There are demons burning their way into our cities, slaughtering our children day after day, and if a simple interrogation will help us locate the Morgenstern demon and put a stop to all of this bloodshed once and for all, then who can deny us that right?"

His lips turned upward, slightly, into a benevolent smile. "Who can deny _you_ that right?"

That did it.

Alec sighed, covering his face with his hand, as voices rang up all around them. Voices shouting out approval of the interrogation, shouting out in agreement with his father.

_"You've kept us in the dark for centuries!"_

_ "We deserve to have a say in all of this!"_

_ "What if they're hiding something from us?"_

_ "We're Nephilim, not mindless slaves!"_

Robert turned to face Jia, a contemptuous look on his face as he stared down at her, smiling angelically. "Our people have spoken, Penhallow; they wish to witness the interrogation. They wish to never again be left in the dark as to the Clave's knowledge and intentions."

Jia sighed, ruefully, dark eyes drowning in defeat. "You have my permission."

_No,_ Alec thought, expression warped into one of dismay.

Public inquisitions were viewed as something barbaric, something not practiced since the dark ages; they were savage, meant to humiliate and ensnare, lead the accused into a viscous corner from which he could not hope to escape.

And he was going to perform them on Jace and Isabelle, his own _children_.

"Your first _victim?_" Jia asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the dark-haired man, her feminine voice dripping with disdain.

Robert's eyes darkened, just slightly. "Jonathan Herondale."

Alec blanched; _Jonathan Herondale?_

Since when did their father ever call Jace by his birth name? He wasn't some distant cousin twice removed, he was their _family_, for Raziel's sake!

No, Alec thought, bitterly. He was _Shadowhunter_ family, which ran even thicker than blood.

"Jace, you don't have to–" Maryse started to say, grasping desperately onto the blonde's wrist, when he pulled away, violently. Maryse gasped, softly, eyes wide, and Jace swallowed, brows furrowed.

"I have no other choice," he said, his tone dark, and he turned away from the Lightwoods, facing the Consul and the Inquisitor.

Murmurs rang throughout the gathering of Nephilim as Jace slowly made his way through the crowd, until he had reached the top of the stairs leading to Robert and Jia.

Alec couldn't recall where they had brought in the iron chair from, though he did note how menacing its large, Gothic frame was as Jace gingerly sat down, utterly dwarfed by its stature.

Jia shot the blonde Shadowhunter an apologetic, strained glance, and stepped off to the side, staring off into the shadows with pained eyes.

_Coward, _Alec thought, hating Aline's mother for the first time. _Coward. End this depravity. _

"He's going to try and break us," Isabelle whispered, softly. Alec turned to face her, and swallowed as he took in her teary-eyed grimace. "He's going to try and crush us until we just break down and tell him everything."

Alec bit his lip. "Isabelle–"

"It's what he feeds off of...isn't it?"

His eyes widening, Alec asked, "Isabelle, what are you talking about? Please, what's going–"

However, his father's booming voice cut him off, and once again, Isabelle withdrew back into herself, a place Alec feared was much darker than the shadows untouched by the witchlight stones.

"Jonathan–" Robert began, when Jace abruptly cut him off.

"_Why?_" Jace asked, looking up at Robert with a heartbroken expression. "Why are you calling me that?"

There was no harshness, no snark. There was no _Jaceness_ about it.

Only sadness. Only the quiet, mournful sorrow of a child questioning his father's love for him.

Bitterly, Alec realized that his father was seeming more like Valentine than the man who had read stories about heroes and dragons to he and Jace as children, who had taught Isabelle how to flay a demon's flesh from its hide with her whip, who had sobbed with the grief only a parent can know over his youngest son's body in Idris at the end of the Mortal Wars.

Robert's eyes widened, more surprised than regretful. "It's your name, isn't it?"

Alec inhaled sharply, remembering that awful day in the fae caffe with Magnus, when the warlock had asked him that same question.

_How it stings_, he thought, _to hear someone you love, someone you thought loved you too, treat you like a stranger._

Jace swallowed, and nodded his head, slowly.

"Now, Jonathan," Robert pressed onward, "Exactly one week ago tonight, you claim that, alongside Isabelle Lightwood, you arrived at the house of Lucian Graymark and Jocelyn Fairchild, only to find–"

"Garroway."

Robert, who had already opened his mouth to resume speaking, did a double-take, shooting a puzzled glance down at Jace. "Excuse me?"

"Garroway," Jace repeated, his voice gaining in volume as his confidence grew. "They were married more than two weeks ago. I think it's best to honor their memories, remember them how they would have wanted us to." Alec saw Jace's expression shift slightly, saw the pain lace itself just beyond the silvery-gold shimmer veiling his eyes.

Jia's dark eyes glimmered in the witchlight, though her expression remained mostly stoic. "Very well, Jace. They shall henceforth be referred to as Luke and Jocelyn Garroway." She turned to aim a somewhat cold glance at Robert. "As you were," she added, her voice ringing throughout the chamber.

Robert's eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw setting into a hardened grimace. "We have a war to focus on, my friends. The surname of a rogue Shadowhunter and her _mutt_ hardly seems to be as pressing a matter as Jonathan Morgenstern."

Isabelle gasped, and Alec tensed beside her; he had known that his father had never been terribly fond of Luke, but to say something so _awful_ of him?

It wasn't like him at all.

"_Robert_." Jia's voice cut in like a sliver of ice.

"My apologies, Consul," Robert said in reply, his tone wholly unapologetic. "As you were, Jonathan."

Jace narrowed his eyes up at Robert, but proceeded nevertheless.

"We left the Institute early in the morning to see Clary at Luke and Jocelyn's house, and when we reached the front porch, we heard a crash coming from inside. I broke into the house, and when we entered the living room, we came across Sebastian Morgenstern impaling Jocelyn through her chest. Before I could intervene, he attacked me with dark magic, and dragged Clary through a portal in the wall, and then they vanished."

Alec frowned, hating how rehearsed Jace's story sounded. Then again, he thought, maybe it only sounded so fake to him because he knew the truth behind the lie.

"Clary _killed_ a Shadowhunter," Isabelle had said after they had raced back to the Institute, roughly waking Alec from an already fitful slumber full of nightmares about hellish kings and vanishing warlocks. "If the Clave finds out, she'll be put to death."

"But she was _possessed_," Alec had countered, eyes wide as he stared across at his sister, at her freakishly red eyes. "Surely they won't kill her with her being under demonic influence?"

"_It doesn't matter._"

Alec turned to face Jace, who was staring out his Parabatai's bedroom window, his back turned to them. It was the first thing he had spoken since he and Isabelle had barged into the room like a maddened, raving hurricane.

"Jace–" Alec began, but Jace had merely cut him off.

He turned to face them, and Alec bit back a gasp as he saw the deep shadows painted under his brother's eyes, at the heartache stitched into his very skin. "They would have killed me to hurt Sebastian. Killing her would utterly destroy him. Trust me, Alec, I've been inside his head, I've been a _part_ of him."

"Killing Clary would end this entire war."

Alec grimaced as he remembered Jace's words, at the haunting realization that it had only been the truth.

Kill Clary, kill Sebastian's heart, or whatever was left of it.

And without a heart, Alec wondered, would Sebastian be able to survive?

Or would he simply be fueled by even more hatred, hatred for the people who had killed his sister, the one person he so desperately seemed to want to love him?

Perhaps, Alec thought, that Sebastian was a creature made entirely of hate. Maybe he really didn't know what something like love even was. Maybe that's why he killed his own mother and ripped out his sister's very soul.

He was a thief, Alec thought, angrily, a thief and a killer.

A monster without a heart. A demon that could never change.

"You may leave," Robert said, and Jace shot the man an incredulous look, eyes wide with disbelief. Robert smiled down at him, but there was something cold and inhuman about that smile. "And if you would be so kind, send your sister up?"

Why, Alec thought, make such a fuss over publicly interrogating two underage Shadowhunters, and then barely skim over the details, before sending them away?

It made no sense.

Jace arrived back to Maryse and Alec, just as his sister left to take her place at the iron chair. "Something is terribly wrong," Jace whispered to his Parabatai. "Something is so...so wrong."

Isabelle's interrogation went much the same, though at one point there involved a rather inappropriate hand gesture and a few rather choice words that made Maryse groan as hundreds of eyes turned toward her in disappointment.

And no sooner than she had been forced to tell the exact same story that Jace had told, she too, was sent back to the seemingly disappointed crowd of waiting Nephilim.

"Are you _satisfied_, Robert?" Jia asked, harshly. "Congratulations, _Inquisitor_, we now know exactly _nothing_ more than we did one week ago."

Despite general murmurs of dissatisfaction from the crowd of Shadowhunters before him, Robert merely shrugged off the Consul's wrath, and said, "I will not be satisfied until the interrogation has been completed, Consul Penhallow."

_Completed?_

"What on _earth_ are you talking about, Robert?"

Robert pressed his fingertips together, seeming more villain now than Shadowhunter to Alec. "I still have one final 'victim' as you would say."

Jia narrowed her dark eyes, and asked, coldly, "And who, _pray tell_, would that be?"

The dark-haired man smiled, his eyes lighting up. "My son."

Alec paled next to Jace and Isabelle, who both tensed next to him. Maryse stepped in front of Jace and Alec, protectively shielding them from her husband's cold eyes. "Alec took no part in the events that took place that night!" she cried out, hands balled into fists once more.

"I assure you, Maryse," Robert said, and the tightness with which he spoke her name brought a shiver along Alec's spine, "that I merely intend to question Alec as to information regarding the warlock Magnus Bane."

Alec stumbled backwards, knocking into another Shadowhunter standing behind him. Jace helped him to his feet, as Isabelle stared up at their father with hate-filled eyes. "How _dare_ you? How _dare_ you use the Clave to interrogate Alec about his love life? That's sick! That's perverted, wrong, you...you..."

However, Isabelle instantaneously became silent, rigid. Her lips fell into a tight, impassive line, and her eyes fell shut as she brought her hand to her mouth, shaking as violent sobs began to rack her entire frame.

Robert turned his gaze from his distraught daughter, to where Alec and Jace stood. "It has been brought to the attention of the Clave that the High Warlock of Brooklyn, Magnus Bane, is playing the part of a traitor."

Once again, the Nephilim around them began to fidget and murmur among themselves, eyes boring into Alec where he stood. "Surely, if there is nothing to hide, a simple interrogation means nothing, Alec?" Robert asked, and his tone was once again his own, that familiar, warm, gentle voice that used to sing him to sleep during stormy nights during his childhood.

Alec grimaced, and nodded. "I concede," he whispered, and Isabelle broke down into a fresh wave of tears, running out of the cavern. Alec stared after her for some time, before making his way up the stairs, to be interrogated.

Jia walked him to the chair, and placed a kind, gentle hand upon his shoulder. He wanted to laugh at the wrongness of it all, being comforted at an interrogation that's goal was to weed out the darkest of his lover's secrets.

He was going to lie.

He was going to lie to the Clave, to his family, to his father.

He was going to lie to heaven itself.

_My god, _he thought, stunned, _I'm going to lie to Jace._

Jace, who had been his confidante since childhood, who had been his brother in more ways than own brother could have ever hoped to be.

Jace, whom he loved more than the stars, more than heaven, more than the angels themselves.

Sometimes, he thought, guiltily, sometimes even more than Magnus.

But now was the time to put a stop to that, to prove to heaven and hell that Magnus meant more to him than even his Parabatai, for he would betray his brother so that Magnus could live.

He sat down in the iron chair, facing the anxious crowd of Nephilim awaiting this unfair trial. He was thankful for the brightness of the witchlight, obscuring their faces from view; he could only just see the first line of people, Jace and his mother among them.

He would be strong, for them.

Robert cracked his knuckles, and Alec winced. "Alexander," he said, slowly, and there was that unfamiliarity again, that strange coldness. "Alexander, look at me."

Numbly, Alec slowly forced himself to glance upward, locking gazes with his father, blue on blue.

There was something...dark, lurking just beyond his father's eyes. It was a different sort of darkness than had been in Maureen and Jace's eyes when they had been possessed by Lilith; with Lilith, an emptiness floated to the surface, mucking up the iris, causing a strange sort of hollowed light, as if the poor thing being taken over was essentially soulless, a mere shell of the person they once were.

But with Robert...

It was his father, there was no doubt about it. Same blue, twinkling eyes, same devil-may-care gleam sparkling just inside the iris. But there was a dark undercurrent lingering in his gaze, and the blue of his eyes was almost too intense, too striking.

And his voice...

It was deeper than he remembered it, more...soothing, odd as that were.

_Like honey, _Alec thought, feeling a vague sense of familiarity with that voice.

His father aimed a scathing glare down at him. "Alexander," he said, his tone unusually cold, "do you know the identity of the warlock Magnus Bane's father?"

A murmur ran throughout the crowd of Nephilim, and both Jace and Maryse shared bewildered glances. Alec swallowed, feeling as if his stomach had clawed its way up into his throat. "I...I...no, of course not. He didn't tell me anything about his past, nothing like that."

"Tell me, Alexander," Robert pressed on, and Alec felt a cold feeling of dread twisting itself into the very pit of his gut, "do you know how a warlock is brought into existence?"

"Of course," Alec replied, his tone exasperated. "Through demons. That's how warlocks are created, a result of a union between a demon and a mortal. What kind of question is that, anyway?" he demanded, his tone snappish and cold.

Jia shifted, the fabric of her robe rustling slightly as she moved. "Agreed. What point is there to this, Robert?"

"I assure you, Consul, that this inquiry is _all_ too relevant."

Jia's eyes narrowed harshly, dark slits in the silvery shadows cast by the witchlight stones. "Make your point _soon_, Lightwood."

"Very well," he replied, and from inside his robe, Robert withdrew a blade, glimmering wickedly in the flickering light.

_Maellartach._

Gasps and whispers ran throughout the crowd of Shadowhunters in the chamber, and all Alec could hear was his mother screaming, begging Jia to make this madness stop. "Robert, you cannot mean to use the Mortal Sword against your own _son!_" Jia gasped, her expression one of horror and revulsion.

Robert stared down at his son with cruel eyes, and held out the sword. Shaking, Alec took hold of the blade, icy to the touch.

He remembered Hodge's one and only lesson on the Soul-Sword, that it was Seraphic in nature, meant to cleanse the sinner with the healing grace of truth. It was very rarely used, and only on the worst of traitors, the last, if he recalled Hodge's words correctly, being one Jessamine Lovelace, the last of her line.

It was a torture device for _traitors_, not for young Shadowhunters, not for _innocents_, not for...

_But I am a traitor. I became a traitor to the Clave the moment I chose to keep his father's identity a secret._

"Again, Alexander Lightwood," his father asked once more, his voice stern and unflinching, "do you know the identity of the warlock Magnus Bane's father?"

"No, I–" Suddenly, the sword began to glow a muted gold, and a curtain of fire was thrown over Alec, engulfing his body in torrents of invisible flame. Alec cried out, a low, agonized wail, before a quiet, "Yes," escaped his lips.

The fire died down instantaneously, and he was left panting hard, his chest rising and falling to an unsteady, erratic beat, the Angel Blade feeling cold and heavy in his hands. In the crowd, he could see his mother sobbing into her hands, Jace's arms around her as he looked up at his Parabatai with wide, uncertain eyes.

"Answer your brethren, Alexander. Who is the Warlock Magnus Bane's father?"

Alec bit his lip, just as the fire began to tear into him with a ravenous hunger. He could feel the sword slicing into him with nonexistent strings, pulling at every fiber of his being, desperate for him to unravel completely, lose himself to its cleansing power.

It searched through days, months, years of memories, picking at every face and voice, every lie and bitter word, until finally, it sunk its talons into the one truth that could never be exposed, the one truth that needed to be taken to the grave.

He looked up at his father, knowing that he was seconds away from deteriorating. "Dad...Dad, please," he whispered, forgetting the hundreds of Nephilim eyes boring into him. "_Please_, don't do this..."

Robert's lips twitched upward, ever so slightly, more sneer than smirk, and Alec's blood turned to ice.

The voice...the voice like honey...serpentlike...

This man...this...this _thing_...

It only _looked_ like Robert.

_His father was dead._

Alec stared into the strikingly blue eyes, his vision blurring as the sneer began to morph into a feral grin, and he grabbed Alec by the throat, crushing, hoisting the Shadowhunter up off the chair, holding him suspended in the air, pressing the Mortal Sword against Alec's cheek.

"WHO IS MAGNUS BANE'S FATHER, MORTAL?" a deep, bellowing voice roared throughout the cavern, and the fire tore into Alec once again, the screaming Nephilim melting away, second to this terrible, awful pain.

_Forgive me, Magnus. Please, please forgive me._

"_Lucifer!_" he gasped, his eyes wide as he stared up at the thing wearing his father's skin.

Time seemed to stand still, darkness everywhere aside from this demon thing and the Shadowhunter boy, when the demon leaned down, so close to Alec that he could smell its breath, a terrible mixture of roses and smoke.

"Your father," it whispered, and this time its voice was its own, beautiful and dark, "screamed out for his angels when I devoured his soul."

Alec screamed, clawing at the demon's arms, tears streaming down his face. "But there are no angels where _I_ dwell, Lightwood."

He threw Alec to the ground, and the boy landed hard upon his arm, a sickening _crack_ filling his ears. The thing laughed wickedly, that intrusive sound of honey and darkness slicing through his senses once again.

"I look forward to adding you and your sister to my ever-growing collection of Lightwoods," he mused, before evaporating into a cloud of black smoke, spiraling high up into the heavens.

In the darkness, numbly, Alec fumbled around in his coat pockets, his fingers curling around the witchlight stone he always had on his person. He balled his hand into a fist around the transparent stone, and a rainbow of silvery light sparked around him, showering the interrogation area in muted silver and faint gold.

And there, illuminated just off to the side, was Robert Lightwood's broken, crumpled body lying in a heap of bruised limbs, like a ragdoll tossed off to the side.

Alec crawled over to his father, cringing as his arm began to sting like the cut of a thousand wicked blades. He reached his father's body, and, fearing for the worst, whispered, softly, brokenly, "D...Dad?"

A sigh, heavy and weak, warmed Alec to the core. "Alec..." Robert whispered, his deep voice barely more than a whisper. Alec grasped onto his father's hand with both of his, overjoyed.

"Dad, are you..." However, his voice dyed off as he took in the state of his father's body, his eyes roaming over the broken limbs and emaciated state. His skin was paper white, sunken eyes swimming in dark circles. He swallowed back his horror, and said, "We'll take you back to the Institute...make you better."

Robert smiled, though there was no mirth behind the gesture. "The devil is the second most powerful being in existence, Alec; a mere human body isn't enough to withstand his possession."

Alec closed his eyes, and when he opened them, his vision blurred with tears. "H...How did this happen?"

"He overtook me just as I left Idris." His lips broke into a tiny smile that barely reached his eyes, so clouded over with death. "_I was coming home._" The words were bitter, anguished.

Alec looked down, biting his lip to stifle the sob building in his chest. "I'm so sorry I doubted you." He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. "I'm so sorry about everything, Dad. About not being stronger, about this...about Magnus..."

A sob broke through his defenses, and he turned to the side, unwilling to let his father's last moment with him be fraught with weakness and vulnerability.

Gently, his father brought his hand under his chin, and pulled his face so that he was staring down into Robert's eyes. "I'm so sorry, Alec, for all the pain I've caused you and your sister, for how I treated your mother."

His eyes began to water, and his grip on Alec's hand was weakening. "But there's...something...you need to know..."

Alec's breathing quickened, panicked. "What? Dad, what is it?"

"You never disappointed me, Alec. _Never_."

Alec's lips parted, and his eyes filled to the brim with tears as his father, who had been the strongest man in his life, slipped just beyond his reach, to a strange, foreign land of uncaring angels and absent gods.

* * *

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

**First, I am deeply sorry for the prolonged hiatus. I was going through some very personal issues, and honestly, fanfiction was the very last thing on my mind. I was basically emotionally incapacitated for the last two months, so what little 'juice' I had had to go to my original writing, which I hope is understandable. **

**On a happier note, I won NaNoWriMo.**

**On a sadder note, I'm working on an entirely new project, and world building is a pain.**

**Only one POV for this chapter, because honestly, I was too sad to write more, and I felt it was a good place to end. I'm very sad I had to kill Robert. But unfortunately, his death is actually pivotal to the rest of the plot. **

**Aside from the end, I really don't care much for this chapter, but mostly because I'm at that point where I just want to skip past all the sad and get to all the funny, but then I remember that my writing is always sad and dark. Alas, such is my curse.**

**Again, terribly sorry for the extended wait, but I'm back, and the show must go on, and all that jazz.**


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